


Banishing Nightmares

by Sarra Manderly (TasarienOfCarasGaladhon)



Series: Aemon the Dragonwolf [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya is really messed up you guys, Casual Uses of Warging, Cersei is Queen in the South, Frey pies, Gen, Ignores S7, Ignores S7 Spoilers, Independent North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon is King in the North, Mix of Show and Book Verse, Nightmares, Stark family feels, The Riverlands Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2018-12-07 08:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/Sarra%20Manderly
Summary: Sansa and Jon, haunted by their demons, band together to ease their troubled sleep. With Sansa's help, Jon begins to accept at least a small part of his Targaryen heritage. Meanwhile, Petyr Baelish, one-armed, ill, and desperate to escape the Starks, runs into the most dangerous Stark of all. Bran and Meera reach Winterfell at last, and the Bolton captives in the Dreadfort come home. Far away to the south, Daenerys Targaryen arrives in Westeros.





	1. Jon I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! I'm back like a bad penny, armed with more fic. Do you want Stark family feels that will rot your teeth? I got 'em and I'm happy to oblige. Do you want Arya the murderbot to turn back into a human? I may have that, too. Petyr Baelish torture? You know the drill by now...
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to iamqueenkk for beta-reading this! You're spoiling me rotten with your positive comments and correcting my mistakes, so what more can I ask for? :D

**JON I**

 

Jon woke up screaming. It wasn't a rare occurrence. Some nights, he dreamed of Hardhome, and the cold blue eyes that followed his every move. Other nights, he dreamed of knives in the dark, or the crypts, or poor Rickon falling onto the snow, pierced by the Bolton bastard's arrow. Tonight, he'd dreamed of Ygritte.

 

His chamber was dark, and the fire had died at least an hour ago. He should have been shivering, but since his death and rebirth, he did not feel the cold as much as he used to. Perhaps it was only his imagination, or the distance between him and the Wall, but Jon seemed to burn with an inner fire these days, and it _terrified_ him. He wasn't sure if that was his dragon blood, awakened by the Red Witch, or the Lord of Light's fire. If the latter, he wanted it gone, but he knew not how to get rid of it.

 

Well, he had _one_ idea, but he wouldn't do that to Sansa. He'd promised to protect her; he'd not abandon her now, nor Bran and Arya.

 

Thinking of Sansa reminded him of the promise he'd made some time ago, when they'd confessed to each other that they rarely slept. Jon had been reluctant to take her up on it even then, but now? A brother crawling into his grown sister's bed was odd enough; a male _cousin_ doing so was even worse! Had it been Arya, he would have done it without a second thought, he admitted to himself, but Sansa was different; they'd never been close.

 

_Promise me._

 

He got out of bed with a sigh, and slipped his stockinged feet into boots. Sansa was close enough to have heard his screams; he'd given her the Lord's Chamber, and at her insistence and that of the Wintersguard, he'd moved into Sansa's old room, three doors away. Bran's and Arya's rooms awaited their return, and Robb's had lain empty since the death of Ramsay Bolton. Jon needed no one to tell him where the Bastard of Bolton had violated Sansa, seeing how she shuddered when she walked past the door. One of these days, he'd take everything the bastard had touched in that room and start a bonfire outside. He was sure Robb would have approved.

 

Jon crossed the hallway quietly. He could see Tormund and Suregg standing guard at the head of the stairs, their backs facing Jon and Sansa's rooms, and the dead end hallway beyond. He slipped into the Lord's Chamber without a sound, and closed the heavy door carefully. When he looked towards the bed, he met his sister's—cousin's—blue eyes.  
  


“Have you finally remembered your promise?” she asked, sounding vaguely amused.

 

“I never forgot,” Jon answered honestly. “But I'm your cousin now, and—”

 

“And nothing,” Sansa interrupted, scooting over to make room on the bed. “You were always my cousin, even if we didn't know it. Now get in here; it's too cold to be wandering about.”

 

Despite himself, Jon approached the bed. “It's not right,” he said softly.

 

“If I started a list of all the things that aren't right in this world, this wouldn't make the top five hundred,” Sansa insisted, busily adjusting pillows. “My virtue—what's left of it, anyway—is safer with you here than without you, Jon.”

 

Jon removed his boots and got into bed, facing Sansa. “I wish you wouldn't say things like that. There's nothing wrong with your virtue.”

 

She took his unburnt hand, and ran her thumb gently over his cold fingers.

 

“I dreamed of Father's death tonight. What was your nightmare about?”

 

“Ygritte,” he admitted. “Only in my dream, I killed her.”

 

Sansa rolled closer and embraced him, burrowing an arm under his torso.

 

“I've had those dreams often,” Jon continued. It was easier to share secrets in the dark, when the other person couldn't see the shame and self-loathing on one's face. “Sometimes I dreamed that I'd killed Robb, or Arya, or Fath—Uncle Ned.”

 

“You can still call him Father, you know,” Sansa whispered. “He _was_ your father in every way that counts. I won't be selfish and keep him to myself.”

 

“I hardly know who I am anymore, much less who my father was,” Jon confessed, closing his stinging eyes in shame.

 

“You are the King in the North,” Sansa replied. “The White Wolf; a warg and a hero. Your birth name doesn't change that.”

 

“Does it not?” he asked softly. “Don't you think the lords will blame my Targaryen heritage every time I do something they dislike? That they'll start watching me for signs of madness, and wonder why they made me king instead of Bran?”

 

Sansa squeezed him tighter, and he wrapped his own arms around her. It wasn't fair to ask his cousin to be his rock, but that's what she'd become to him lately. The once spoiled, shallow Sansa had turned into the strongest woman he knew, and that was saying something; the women he knew included spearwives, a warrior woman from the Stormlands, and the force of nature that was Lyanna Mormont!

 

“If you can survive being killed and resurrected without going mad, and if I can survive Ramsay Bolton and being a Lannister hostage, you can survive being _the son of a Targaryen prince_ , no matter how awful it may seem.” She grinned at him. “I have faith in you.”

 

“When you put it like that, everything else sounds so trivial,” Jon replied, kissing her forehead. “Thank you for putting me in my place so thoroughly.”

 

“It was my pleasure. Good night, Jon,” she whispered.

 

“Good night,” Sansa.”

 

It wasn't a good night, exactly, but it was an improvement. When Sansa jolted awake an hour later, shaking and pleading for Ramsay to leave her alone, Jon was there to embrace her, and whisper that she was safe, Ramsay was dead, and all was well. When Jon woke gasping for breath, clutching his chest and seeing knives in the darkness, Sansa was there to run gentle hands through his hair until he calmed. They were both broken, but willing to help one another heal.

 

After four nights of this new arrangement, Jon had a confession to make. They were abed in the near-darkness, with the fireplace crackling a few feet away.

 

“Remember when you left the solar to take supplies to the winter town this morning?”

 

“Hmm,” Sansa murmured sleepily.

 

“While you were gone, Lord Cerwyn asked me when I would marry you off.” Jon told her. “He might still be shaking in his boots after my response.”

 

“Jon,” his cousin sighed, now wide awake. “We knew it would happen eventually. You can't blame them for asking.”

 

“I will _never_ marry you off against your will,” he vowed seriously. “I hope I made that clear today. If you want to marry any of them, you're welcome to do so, but I will not _sell_ my only family for alliances or soldiers or whatever it may be.”

 

He heard a sniffle from Sansa's side of the bed, and Jon panicked. “Sansa? What is it? Has anyone said anything—hurt you—in any way?”

 

She didn't answer except for a muffled _no_ and a sob.

 

“Sansa? Talk to me, please,” Jon begged, trying to make out her expression.

 

“When Father told us we were leaving King's Landing,” she told him finally, now crying harder, “he said he'd make me a match with a lord worthy of me, someone brave and gentle and strong. He said the betrothal to Joffrey had been a terrible mistake, and that Joff was _no Prince Aemon_.”

 

“That's an understatement,” Jon said savagely. “If we're comparing that smirking, cowardly, honorless sack of horseshit to any Targaryen it would be Aegon the Unworthy or Maegor the Cruel, not the greatest knight who ever lived.”

 

“Don't you see?” Sansa asked, taking his hand. “Father _knew_ there was a true prince in Westeros, one who was exactly what he described, and his name was Aemon Targaryen. That's how highly he thought of _you_ , Jon.”

 

Jon shook his head. “Sansa, I'm sure he meant the Dragonknight, not me.”

 

“Are you?” she insisted. “I'm not so sure.”

 

“I was meant to become another bastard of the Watch, nothing more,” Jon told her firmly. “Father never expected King Robert to die so soon, and he would _never_ have rebelled against his old friend for my sake. But I won't let you become my Naerys, in any case,” Jon promised her. “I know you girls found that story romantic, but it's awful. _I_ won't stand idly by as you marry an unworthy man, and stand back when he makes you miserable. You've had enough of that for a dozen lifetimes.”

 

He felt Sansa's arms squeeze his middle. “And who is worthy of me, your grace?” she asked quietly.

 

Jon felt the answer was obvious. “Whoever _you_ judge worthy, of course,” he answered, playing with the end of her long plait.

 

“I'd forgotten what good men were like, after living with monsters for so long,” Sansa whispered into his shirt. “Thank you for reminding me, my Dragonknight.”

 

Sansa had fallen asleep shortly after that, leaving Jon wide awake and thinking thoughts he'd never dared to ponder before. What _had_ his father planned for him? Going to the Wall had been Jon's decision, but what if he'd chosen to do something else? Would Eddard Stark _ever_ have told him what he was?

 

Unless his father had shared his plans with Uncle Benjen, Jon would never know. He didn't even know if Uncle Benjen knew who and what Jon was!

 

Sleep did not come easy to Jon that night, but for once, it was not because of nightmares.

 

A few days later, Sansa summoned Jon to the lord's solar after the evening meal. She was dressed in a plain green gown, and sitting comfortably by the fire, with Lyanna Stark's hope chest at her feet.

 

“Jon, come in,” she greeted him, and nodded at the Wintersguards behind him. Tonight it was Larence Snow and Rickard Ashwood guarding Sansa, and Tormund and Lord Wull guarding Jon. He shut the door, then took the seat beside his cousin's.

 

“What's going on?” he asked curiously. “You're not usually so vague with your summons.”

 

Sansa grinned. “I wasn't sure you'd come if you knew. But I thought we could use some help going to sleep.”

 

Jon raised an eyebrow. They both slept poorly still, but better than they had before, when they'd each struggled through the long nights alone.

 

Before Jon could ask anything else, Sansa reached into the box and took out the silver harp that had been Rhaegar Targaryen's.

 

“Do you remember when I had high harp lessons?” she asked.

 

Jon nodded. Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn had taught Sansa many ladylike arts, but he hadn't heard her play in years.

 

“I lost my harp when Father's men were killed,” Sansa told him. “My harp was packed with my other things, and I never saw it again. One of Margaery Tyrell's cousins offered to teach me more, but once I'd been married to Tyrion, the Tyrells acted like I never existed,” she confessed, angered by the old memories. “They were all so sweet when they thought they could marry me off to Willas, and once the North was out of their grasp, I became the outcast I was to everyone else.”

 

“Sansa,” Jon said sadly, “you needn't speak of it if you don't want to.”

 

“I didn't mean to speak of King's Landing,” she said, giving Jon a small smile. “I meant to offer to teach you.”

 

“Teach me what, the harp?” cried Jon incredulously. It was such an odd, _frivolous_ thing to offer to a man like him, who had spent years in the enforced austerity of the Night's Watch.

 

“Your father was a famous player, was he not?” Sansa explained with a shrug. “And you have his talent for singing, if nothing else. Ser Jaime said you sound just like Prince Rhaegar. Mayhaps you have his talent for the harp as well, and it would relax us both to play before bed. You're working too hard, even for a King in the North. Now watch.”

 

She started playing then, a slow, gentle melody that was almost a lullaby. It was quite soothing.

 

“Would you like to try?” she asked, holding out the dragon harp. “I just tuned it.”

 

Jon removed his gloves, then took the harp with clumsy fingers. “I'll make a fool of myself.”

 

“We all do, when we start,” she answered encouragingly. “You can't play perfectly on your first try.”

 

She was right, of course. Jon plucked gingerly at the strings, coaxing a discordant melody out of the old harp. Slowly, as his fingers learned the way, he started plucking the notes to _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._

 

“You might have inherited your father's skill after all,” Sansa said delightedly. “It's supposed to be harder to learn as you age, but you're doing better than I did when I started.”

 

“It's nothing _that_ impressive,” Jon demurred. “I'm only playing a simple tune I already know. My father apparently composed long, tragic pieces that made all the maidens cry and lose their senses.”

 

“Well, I'm no maiden, and I don't want to cry,” Sansa told him, shrugging. “You're the Dragonknight to my not-Naerys; you're meant to make me laugh, Jon.”

 

He frowned at her, unsure if she was serious. “I'm not sure how to do that with a harp. I've never been good with japes, either.”

 

“Play whatever you like, then,” his cousin decided. “If you don't feel like improvising, I can teach you to read music,” she offered, showing him yellowed sheet music. “I found these in your room. They're from my lessons.”

 

Jon had never learned to read music, for obvious reasons. The music teacher had been Septa Mordane, and the pious septa could not bear the thought of a bastard in the house. She had only ever addressed him when scolding him. Music was not a priority for boys, and doubly so for bastard boys.

 

“Perhaps later,” Jon offered. Despite his doubts, he knew Sansa was only trying to help. He plucked at the harp a bit more, a slow tune appropriate for lulling children to sleep. Sansa watched him with a small smile, quite awake, so he supposed he'd failed.

 

“Your technique could use some work,” she critiqued, stepping around him. From behind his chair, she leaned over and adjusted his grip on the delicate instrument, and turned the hand he was using to play. Jon caught the scent of winter roses as her auburn hair swung forward. “But you have a musician's instinct. I'm not sure what you were playing, but it sounded nice.”

 

“I'm not sure, either,” Jon admitted.

 

Instead of returning to her chair, Sansa sat on the old rug. It was a thing of beauty, made of squares of black, brown, gray, and white fur. Some long-dead Stark with a fondness for hunting had collected all of these pelts, and his wife had turned them into an enormous patchwork rug. With her toes pointed toward the fire, the rug underneath, and her warmest robe around her shoulders, Sansa looked perfectly comfortable leaning against Jon's chair.

 

Jon played his father's harp. There was no melody to follow, and no inspiration to guide him; he simply moved his hands back and forth, plucking gently until something resembling a song poured out. Sansa's eyes fluttered closed, and Jon kept playing absently. He thought of his mother, weeping because of a song she'd heard, and wondered if she would have wept openly, like Sansa, or hidden her tears and punched any brother who dared mock her, like Arya. After Howland Reed's story, Jon suspected the latter.

 

His eyes fell on Lyanna Stark's glory box, forgotten next to Sansa's empty chair. Someday soon he'd muster up his courage and open it, taking the time to read the papers in there. Sansa had seen a letter addressed to _him_ , and he would not be so craven as to ignore the last words his dying mother had penned. For now he kept playing, until a light snore from Sansa startled him into laughter.

 

“What?” she mumbled, blinking up at him through thick auburn eyelashes. “What's so funny?”

 

“Nothing, Princess,” Jon told her with a grin. “But your plan worked a little too well. You'll sleep better in your bed, don't you think?”

 

He offered Sansa a hand, and pulled her to feet. They left the solar together, Jon still carrying his father's favorite instrument. Once they'd bid their guards goodnight, Jon changed out of his leathers and joined his cousin, harp in hand. He'd keep it nearby, and if he or Sansa had nightmares tonight, he might soothe her—and himself—back into a more restful slumber.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Jon didn't turn into a Gary Stu harp prodigy. When I wrote that part I was thinking of the Sherlock episode A Scandal in Belgravia, where Sherlock is sitting on his chair, plucking at a violin while he thinks. He's making noise more than playing an actual song, but the sound is soothing enough to put Sansa to sleep.
> 
> Next up, an Arya cameo!
> 
> Some of you have told me things like "I love your story but Jon's name is JAEHAERYS!", and I get it; I used to be one of you, and Jon's name was Jaehaerys in my original draft. If you're interested at all in knowing *why* I converted to Team Aemon, have a look at this Reddit post. SchmedStark put all the book evidence together: [Reddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/asoiaf/comments/6n3sip/spoilers_extended_his_true_name_a_detailed/)


	2. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya takes care of business at the Twins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! As promised, a wild Arya makes her appearance! Apologies for the lateness; I had to make my old laptop fit for use, after my usual one decided it wasn't going to take the abuse anymore and died. 
> 
> I wrote this before the S7 premiere, but alas, I delayed, swapped it with the Jon chapter, and the show stole my thunder. The same goes for Bran's arrival. You'll find both chapters are, very, very different from the show's version of events, however. Since I'm not limited to an hour, I can revisit plot elements that the show dropped for time constraints, and include as many characters (and direwolves) as I want. I'm taking full advantage of that! :-)
> 
> Warning: there are some unusual time-jumps in this chapter. We flash back to when Jaime and Bronn were at the Twins, and then we flash back to Arya's more recent murder spree, before coming to the present.

**ARYA I**

 

Arya had learned much since King Robert had barged into her world, drunk and loud and unwelcome. Her training with Syrio had taught her to watch her surroundings—and men—and see them for what they were. Her days of servitude in Harrenhal had taught her the horrible things humans could do to each other, and when to keep silent despite the atrocities before her eyes. Her training with the Kindly Man had taught her how to listen and report, and how to infiltrate a place where she was a stranger. They, Jaqen, the Hound, and the Waif had taught her how to kill.

 

In her idle moments, Arya wondered if her masters would be proud of her achievements, or horrified by the monster they'd created.

 

Infiltrating the Twins had taken all of her talents. The naturally impatient Arya had forced herself to be still, to listen, and to wait. She'd worn the pretty face of a long-dead Westerosi girl to find work, knowing that old Walder Frey could not resist pretty wenches. The girl who had once been No One had swallowed her disgust and served the repulsive lecher for weeks, enduring his groping hands and lewd comments.

 

All the while, she had listened. House Frey was large and full of petty feuds, with brothers, nephews, grandchildren, and cousins fighting for the old lord's favor. After a moon's turn at the Twins, she knew all of the rumors, and had spread some of her own. More importantly, she knew the names of every man involved in the Red Wedding, and her list had grown longer by several Freys.

 

Arya's dreams were her only consolation in a castle full of enemies. By day she was Bella, a simple-minded, good-natured common girl who served the family their evening meals and scrubbed the floors with vigor. By night, she was the leader of a massive wolf pack, and the Riverlands were _hers_.

 

Her Nymeria-dreams were infinitely preferable to the alternative. Any night Arya didn't join her wolf, she'd dream of the Red Wedding, or the Waif's knives, or her father's execution. To ensure she would not be discovered, Arya had taken the coldest, most inhospitable bedchamber in the castle, which no Riverlands servant wished to share. There, she could have nightmares and wolf-dreams without giving herself away.

 

Her fingers had clenched around her wine jug as Walder Frey spoke of alliances and defeating enemies to Jaime Lannister, of all people. She wished she could have killed them all that very night. Alas, Arya Stark was older now, and she knew her limits.

 

Once the Lannisters had left, Arya had ensured that Nymeria's wolf pack would hound the westerlanders out of the Riverlands. Every night, a sentry would go missing. His remains would be found the next morning, devoured by wolves. If the remaining men were spooked and whispered about the vengeance of the Starks, so much the better.

 

Meanwhile, Nymeria had scouted around the Twins. As the gray direwolf turned north, she'd caught the scent of two small, bog-dwelling humans. Arya's control had slipped for a moment, and the beast had cornered the crannogmen scouts behind an enormous oak tree.

 

“Direwolf,” the older one had whispered.

 

“Is it the king's beast?” the younger had replied, watching Nymeria with wide green eyes.

 

“Nay, King Robb's wolf is dead.”

 

“Jon Snow's, then?”

 

Nymeria—and the human seeing through her eyes—had frozen at the names of her brothers, and the crannogmen had noticed.

 

“It knows the name,” the older crannogman had said in awe. “Are you the Lord Commander's wolf, noble one?”

 

Arya had nudged Nymeria into shaking her massive head.

 

“But you _are_ a Stark beast, that much is plain,” young green-eyes had said.

 

Nymeria had nodded.

 

“Go home then, lady wolf. Your brother is in Winterfell with Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. The Riverlands are no place for a creature of the North.”

 

Arya had considered her options. Nymeria had eaten well, and would not devour Northmen while Arya whispered that these people were friends of the pack, but communicating through a direwolf was not exactly easy. She'd looked down at the snow, and had a sudden idea.

 

Before the two men's amazed eyes, the enormous gray direwolf had lifted her left paw, and drawn a letter in the snow. Three more had followed.

 

“Arya,” the older scout had read in shock. He'd dropped to one knee, followed by his companion. “Forgive us, your grace; we had no idea you were a warg like your brothers!”

 

 _Warg_. Old Nan had told her about those, many years ago. Wargs were legendary skinchangers who lived among the First Men. In Nan's tales, the Starks of old had gained the ability after defeating the Warg King and taking his daughters. The greatest enemies of the Kings of Winter, the Red Kings of the Dreadfort, had flayed many a captured Stark, hoping to steal their skinchanging ability.

 

After all she'd seen through Nymeria's eyes, and those of the nameless Braavosi alley cat, Arya had realized that Old Nan and the crannogmen were right. She _was_ a warg, and clearly, Robb had been one as well.

 

“Where are you, your grace? If you're in need, we'll send to Winterfell for help!” the younger scout had offered. “I'm Rowland Fenn, and this is Maren Greengood.”

 

Arya had shaken Nymeria's head again. She'd felt Nymeria's confusion as Arya used her paw to write, and had realized the wolf's patience would not last long. As quickly as possible, she'd smudged her name with her paws, and written an explanation in four disjointed words.

 

TALK BELLA VENGEANCE SECRET

 

The younger crannogman—Rowland—had smiled. “You've found a way to make the Freys pay for the Red Wedding, your grace? How can we help?”

 

Nymeria had shaken her head again, and pointed with her paw to the word SECRET.

 

“As you wish, Princess,” they'd murmured.

 

The older man had used his boot to erase the latest message, and Nymeria had watched as they disappeared back into the trees.

 

A fortnight after meeting the crannogmen, Arya had finally put her plan into action. She'd lured Walder's disgusting, murderous sons into her chamber with flirty smiles, and killed them without a shred of remorse. Once she'd stripped them of their faces and fingers, Arya had taken a meat cleaver from the kitchens and chopped the corpses beyond recognition. Parts of them had gone into the river; others had been fed to Lord Walder's dogs and Nymeria's pack. The fingers had gone into the meat filling for Lord Walder's pie. With a grim smile at the thought of Hot Pie, and what he'd say to the desecration of a perfectly good pastry, Bella the serving wench had taken Lord Walder his last meal.

 

The rumors she had spread of illness were enough to account for the missing men. One by one, Bella found the men who had plotted the destruction of Robb; with winks, smiles, and kisses, she seduced, stabbed, or poisoned them, and their remains disappeared into the river, or into the belly of a wolf. Poisons and herbs from Arya's stores found their way into the women and children's meals, ensuring they'd stay abed and not wander around the castle. When people came to the Twins, hoping to see Walder Frey, they saw him and spoke with him. His loose robe—an old man's whim—hid his smaller, more slender body, and the thin sword at his side.

 

Arya was Lord of the Crossing now. She only wanted the perfect moment to reveal the mummer's farce, and declare to the world that the North remembered, and House Stark was avenged.

 

When Nymeria, now patrolling with her new crannogman friend, sniffed a strange man on a horse riding south, Arya bid her watch from the snow-covered bushes. The man was small, in his thirties, and had lost an arm, but when he fought his exhaustion and raised his head, the wolf caught a glimpse of sly, gray-green eyes. Arya remembered him.

 

“My lord,” a pox-marked guard called, and Arya returned to herself. “Lord Petyr Baelish begs admittance to the castle. He's a in a bad way.”

 

“How so?” Arya replied in the old man's voice.

 

“He says he was attacked by Northmen on the road,” the guard answered.

 

Arya took her Needle and placed it on her lap. She didn't know if Petyr Baelish would know the significance, nor did she care. There would be no guest right for Littlefinger in this castle.

 

“Send him in, then,” she ordered.

 

Petyr Littlefinger Baelish staggered into the hall. He looked terrible. His eyes were glazed with pain, and it seemed as though every step hurt him greatly. Under his cloak he wore an ill-fitting rough tunic, obviously borrowed or stolen, and one sleeve was empty.

 

“Lord Baelish. What brings you to the Twins?” asked Arya in Walder's voice.

 

“I must see a maester, my lord,” he gasped, bracing his remaining hand on his knee. “I've been attacked, and survived purely by luck.”

 

Arya would rather have let him die, but she wished to question him first.

 

“Very well. Take him to the maester's chambers,” she ordered. “There is illness in the castle, and Maester Brenett is quite busy, but he'll see to you soon enough. I will speak with you later, Lord Baelish.”

 

She decided to visit Walder's solar. He was not fond of climbing those stairs with his arthritic knees, so he'd rarely gone up there in his final days. Arya could do it and remain undetected, now that most of the Freys in the castle were sick in their beds.

 

The solar was musty with disuse. Papers and books lay forgotten on the desk, and the shuttered windows let in no light. Arya opened them at once, breathing easier when the chilly breeze struck her nose. It wasn't quite as pure or as cold as Winterfell's air, but it was something.

 

There was little of interest in the solar, except for an awful trophy hanging on the wall. Rage filled the young woman as she found the head of her brother's direwolf, stuffed and mounted above the fireplace and covered with dust. On Grey Wind's large head, he bore the Crown of Winter, taken from Robb's corpse after the Red Wedding.

 

For a moment, Arya could almost see her brother's face, with his auburn locks and Tully-blue eyes. In a fit of anger, the girl who was once No One ripped the direwolf head off the wall and collapsed to the ground, ignoring the cloud of dust as she held poor Grey Wind's head tight. A wail of suppressed grief escaped her, and suddenly she was weeping into the direwolf's fur. The crown rolled away, lost behind the large desk.

 

“You didn't deserve this,” Arya murmured between sobs. “ _We_ didn't deserve this! I avenged you, and Robb, but it was too late!”

 

She didn't know how long she spent on the floor of Walder Frey's solar, rocking back and forth, and crying over the stuffed direwolf head. No one disturbed her, and that was a pity. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to kill every Frey in the world, and make them hurt as much as she was hurting.

 

She could not leave poor Grey Wind here. Arya had discovered a particular spot near the orchard where the men she'd killed liked to piss. After a week's spying, she'd learned the reason—it was the resting place of her brother, Robb. The bastards who'd desecrated her brother's shallow grave would never do it again; it was as good a place as any to bury Grey Wind's head, since she had no means to take it—or Robb—home to Winterfell. And this way the two would stay together.

 

 _Tonight_ , she vowed. _Tonight I'll sneak out and bury him properly_.

 

She'd almost forgotten the crown. She crawled under the desk and picked it up, tracing the runes of the First Men and the sharp little swords. When she cut her finger on one, the sudden pain and bloom of red on her hand cleared her mind.

 

 _This belongs to Jon now_ , she realized. The Northmen at Winterfell had made her bastard brother King in the North after the battle; the crannogmen scouts had told her so. Lord Reed would leave soon to pledge his loyalty to him. Perhaps she should send the crown with him, as a message.

 

 _No_ , she decided. For the first time in years, her desire for revenge mattered less than the desire to see Jon again...and Sansa too, she supposed. It was too much to hope that they'd get along any better than they had as children, but perhaps they could begin anew?

 

She only needed to take care of Baelish first. Then, she could abandon her list for a while, and join her fellow wolves in Winterfell. It was time for the pack, wounded and diminished as it was, to come together again.

 

The little man was too weak to stand, or so the maester had informed Arya. She visited her guest in his room, one of the nicest guest chambers the Twins had to offer. He certainly looked worse for wear, not the impeccably turned out Master of Coin she'd seen at Harrenhal, or in King's Landing!

 

“Lord Walder?” mumbled the man, deep in a fog of poppy.

 

“Lord Baelish,” Arya replied, taking a seat at his bedside. “You look terrible.”

 

“You'd look terrible too,” he said blearily, “if a direwolf tried to eat you.”

 

“Ha!” cried the new Lady of the Crossing, taking full advantage of Walder Frey's toothless grin. “Run afoul of the wolves, have you? I didn't think there were any left. Last I heard, Roose Bolton was Warden of the North. Whereabouts did you find a direwolf?”

 

Baelish couldn't hide a grimace.

 

“Go on, tell an old man,” Arya insisted.

 

“I took Sansa Stark north. She married Ramsay Bolton. It was a mistake,” he said painfully. “Her bastard brother's wolf did this to me, after we took Winterfell back from the Boltons.”

 

Arya fought a smirk. _Good boy, Ghost!_

 

“You harbored an enemy of the Queen Regent?” Arya asked, raising an eyebrow. “Mayhaps I ought to send you to her in chains. Here I thought you were a humble servant of King Tommen, as I am, and instead you've been plotting against the crown. For shame, Baelish!”

 

“Cersei and her boy will never hold the South,” Littlefinger mumbled. “And Jon Snow will never hold the North. Fools, all of them.”

 

“You're a slippery one, Littlefinger,” mused Arya in her Walder face. “I can never puzzle out what your intentions are. You really are more trouble than you're worth.”

 

“You're one to talk about intentions, Lord Frey,” Baelish replied, blinking up at Arya with tired eyes. “One moment you were the Young Wolf's supporter, and the next you had broken the most ancient law of men and gods and butchered him in your hall. He disrespected you by marrying a Volantene wench instead of your Roslin, but did he not offer the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands in exchange?”

 

“A Lady Paramount married to the floppy fish was a poor substitute for a Queen in the North,” Arya improvised, “and the Lannister alliance was more powerful than Robb Stark's. Enough of my men had died on the boy's foolish quest.”

 

Baelish gave Arya a little smirk. “You're a _survivor_ , Lord Walder. I respect that. Too many fools would die for honor, glory, even gold—but not you.”

 

“I suppose I am,” Arya answered. “As are you. Is there anyone left in the world that you might call a friend, Petyr Baelish?”

 

“I must write to Lord Robert,” he mumbled, his eyes closing again. “The Northmen and Lord Royce will have sent ravens full of lies; my stepson will be confused and worried.”

 

“What sort of lies?”

 

But Baelish had succumbed at last. He slept, not knowing that Arya burned with curiosity at his bedside. She knew the man had plotted with Tywin against Robb; she knew it was his interference that had created the Lannister-Tyrell alliance that had ruined Stannis Baratheon. She also remembered the looks he'd shot at Sansa once, at the Hand's Tourney. They'd made Arya's skin crawl even then, though she hadn't fully understood what they meant at the time.

 

She was not exactly sure what he'd done, but if Ghost wanted him dead, it must have been worthy of a death sentence. During her intelligence-gathering phase, before killing the participants of the Red Wedding, Arya had heard much about Fat Walda Bolton, Wardeness of the North, from her jealous, thinner sisters and cousins. The lady had been a diligent correspondent, and worried about her babe's future when her husband's vicious bastard was nearby. Fat Walda's letters had ceased abruptly, and the Twins were rife with rumors about her fate. In this case, Arya was sure that the rumors were kinder than the truth.

 

And Petyr Baelish had sent Sansa to _that_ family.

 

Arya gave Littlefinger more than a moon's turn to recover from his ordeal. In that time, she gave the crannogmen permission to take the news of Walder's death to Jon, though not who had done it; she'd tell him that herself. She also amused herself by peeking at her guest's correspondence and searching through his possessions. There was little to interest her, except for a familiar-looking dagger.

 

She turned it over in her hands. Arya had seen this dagger before, she knew it! She recognized the rippled pattern of Valyrian steel, easily discerned after years of sneaking into Father's room to peek at Ice. She also recognized the hilt of black dragonbone. But where had she seen it?

 

Frustrated, she'd hidden the dagger in a pocket and returned to Littlefinger's messages. All of his urgent ravens had gone unanswered, save one. Her cousin, Robert Arryn, had written to him at last, and the letter read:

 

_Dear Uncle Petyr,_

 

_I am sorry to hear of your recent troubles. Mother always warned me about traveling in the wilderness, and it seems she was right, as she was in all things._

 

_I have heard the reports you mentioned, but do not fear. I don't trust them; they're all waiting for me to die, and I don't believe you would be so cruel to your beloved wife's son. I am with Lady Waynwood, but I hardly mind what she tells me. She's just as likely to poison me as any of the others, and more, so her stupid Harry might have the Vale. I've taken on a food-tester, just in case._

 

_Please do not worry about your reception. I will ensure you are treated as you deserve, and I wish you a safe journey home. If Lord Frey is willing to provide an escort, I will see them compensated and provisioned for the return journey._

 

_Sincerely,_

 

_Robert Arryn_

 

_Lord of the Vale_

 

“What an idiot!” cried Arya, alone in Walder Frey's solar. “He can't be related to me; no Tully would be _that_ stupid!”

 

So, someone had accused Littlefinger of trying to poison the sickly liege lord of the Vale. Arya would not put it past him, marriage to Aunt Lysa or not. And Sansa had been with Baelish for some time. She wondered if the man had tried to poison _Sansa_ , too, and that's why Ghost had taken such a liking for his flesh. But no; Baelish had never shown any love—or interest, or admiration—for a Stark, _except_ Sansa. He was more likely to wed her than to poison her.

 

Idiot or not, Robert Arryn was family. No one poisoned Arya's family and got away with it, and no one sold a Stark to the _Boltons_ and got away with it!

 

As she pondered what to do, Arya remembered something she'd heard long ago, when she'd still had a family, and the bowels of the Red Keep had been hers to explore.

 

_Littlefinger...the gods only know what game Littlefinger is playing. Yet Lord Stark's the one who troubles my sleep. He has the bastard, he has the books, and soon enough he'll have the truth. And now his wife has abducted Tyrion Lannister, thanks to Littlefinger's meddling..._

 

Seven hells, she had no idea she'd remembered that much. She'd gone all the way down to the river that night, miles from the castle, and had come out smelling like shit. She'd repeated the important bits to herself as she washed her clothes in the river and hiked back up to the Red Keep. But then the gold cloaks had taken her for a beggar, and Father had been too confused and angry to believe her jumbled story. And then Yoren had interrupted their talk!

 

 _It wasn't Jon_ , Arya realized. _The bastard must have been Joffrey! Father had figured out that the king's children were bastards, and that's why they'd killed him. And Littlefinger had helped!_

 

She picked up the dagger she'd stolen from Baelish, at last remembering where she'd seen it. Father had kept it on his desk in King's Landing! It was the dagger taken from the assassin the Lannisters had sent to kill Bran. Arya didn't know how it had gotten into Littlefinger's possession, but she doubted very much that Father had given it up willingly!

 

Arya made a mental checklist of the ingredients she'd brought from Braavos, and what she could get from the maester's solar. She could mix two dozen deadly poisons in the blink of an eye, but some were too fast for her liking. The strangler? That would make Baelish suffer for five minutes, at most. It wasn't enough for the man who had started the War of the Five Kings. Sweetsleep was even more merciful, and Littlefinger was not worthy of it.

 

Thickened manticore venom would have been perfect, but alas, she had no sorcerer nearby to thicken it, and unthickened it would kill far too quickly.

 

Basilisk venom? That would induce a murderous rage, but what damage could a one-armed man with no fighting skills do? Arya discarded that one at once. Widow's blood? Now _that_ was a poison. Arya quite liked the idea of turning Baelish's body against him, and watching him drown in the filth of his own bowels. It would be a slow, merciless death, much like greyscale.

 

She made her selection, and started preparing the mix immediately. She would allow Littlefinger to go home, escorted by the few Frey men she'd left alive—those who'd had nothing to do with her family's murder. He'd go home with an unexpected gift.

 

The widow's blood was finished two nights later. Due to its blood-red color, Arya had hidden the two drops needed in a cup of red wine, the best she could find in Walder's wine cellar, and ensured that Littlefinger would drink it. She'd watched him ingest the deadly wine with glee, and toasted his health with her own cup.

 

The North remembered!

 

Petyr Baelish would die screaming, so far from Winterfell that no one would ever suspect Jon or Sansa, but not today. Those doomed to death by widow's blood were forsaken by the Stranger until every last organ in their bodies had betrayed them. Arya only regretted that she would not see it for herself; she had her own journey to make.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! It will be a while before Arya reappears as a POV, but by then she'll be home! And no, I'm not finished with Littlefinger! As long as he's alive, there's more to come on that front.
> 
> Littlefinger Punishment Tally:  
> -Left arm ripped off by angry direwolf  
> -Left arm amputated without anesthetic  
> -Left arm cauterized  
> -Three toes lost to frostbite  
> -Dosed with a slow-acting poison
> 
> Once again, thank you iamqueenkk for your suggestions. :-)


	3. Bran I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran Stark returns home at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a horrific 109 degrees outside, but guess who is inside, a sneezing, coughing, runny-nosed mess? That would be me! Summer colds are the worst, friends.
> 
> Anyway, even though I don't watch the show, I know what happened in the last couple of episodes (and I'd read the leaks months ago). I'm not really impressed, and I think my dissatisfaction with it prompted me to double the Bran chapter in length and split it! At least I hope it was that, and I'm not just loopy from my medicine.
> 
> I present...another round of Stark family feels. Enjoy!

**BRAN I**

 

Seeing the walls of his beloved Winterfell again almost made Bran weep. He had not seen them since that awful day when he and Rickon had escaped, both powerless as their childhood home burned. After all these years, it was nearly impossible to believe that Jon and Sansa were so near, hiding behind the walls he'd climbed so many times.

 

Something must have shown on his face, because Meera took his hand and smiled.

 

“You're almost home, Bran,” she told him quietly.

 

“As are you,” he replied. “It's not Greywater Watch, but Jon's raven said your father was here.”

 

Meera's smile dimmed. Bran knew she was eager to see her father again, but she'd have to tell him how Jojen had died. He wished he could take back his words.

 

“What's all this?” protested one of his Vale knight escorts, gesturing at the mass of people around Winterfell's eastern gate. The men, women, and children clustered at the gate were almost skeletal, wearing dirty clothing too thin for winter, and their frostbitten faces were pinched with pain and exhaustion.

 

“I don't know,” replied one of the Bear Islanders. “Looks like smallfolk begging a place for the winter.”

 

“Shouldn't they go straight to the winter town, then?” another argued.

 

Before they could discuss it further, a rider with a bright red beard came to meet them. Bran didn't recognize him, but his escorts obviously knew the man.

 

“Lady Commander!” he greeted cheerfully. “Welcome back! The Wintersguard has missed you sorely,” he added, awkwardly gallant. Now that he was closer, Bran noticed he was dressed in wildling furs, and his accent was similar to Osha's.

 

“Your grace,” Lady Brienne said, turning to face Bran. “This man is Tormund Giantsbane, one of your family's sworn protectors.”

 

“You wound me, Commander!” the wildling cried. “I thought you kneeler folk were eager to give everyone titles, and bow and scrape. I'm Tormund Giantsbane, true enough, but I am also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-King of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, Father of Hosts, and King Crow's most trusted friend. I am glad to meet you at last, Brandon Stark.”

 

Bran couldn't help but like this man, though it was easy to see he irritated Lady Brienne.

 

“Yes, very well,” she said impatiently. “What's all this commotion at the gate, Tormund?”

 

“They're the Winterfell folk carried away to the Dreadfort,” he replied, turning somber. “They're in a bad way, and they've had a hard march, but not a single one would stay in that place another day.”

 

Bran's stomach sank into the legs he could no longer feel. These were the people he had failed by yielding Winterfell to Theon! He couldn't bear to see them now, when he was comfortable and warm and surrounded by protectors, and _they_ were so tired that some could barely stand.

 

“What is being done for them?” Brienne asked.

 

“Princess Sansa and her people are serving them hot stew in the Great Hall,” Tormund answered. “Jon made some of his kneeler lords bring their chained heal—maesters—and they're tending the ill and wounded folk in the guards' hall. Well, to be truthful, they're _all_ ill and wounded—but some more than most. If you wish to come inside quicker, you ought to ride around to the north gate. I'll warn Jon and Sansa,” he offered. “They'll be _that_ glad to see you, little Bran!”

 

“Don't!” cried Bran, suddenly dreading the meeting. “They're busy helping our people. I can wait until they're finished.”

 

“Your grace,” protested Young Artos of the Wintersguard. “King Jon and Princess Sansa will wish to welcome you!”

 

“I will _wait_ ,” Bran insisted. “And I will rest. I am tired from the journey,” he lied. He'd never been so comfortable on any journey, with horses pulling his weight over smooth snow, and piles of furs to keep him warm, but the guilt and shame nullified it all. He wanted to hide.

 

“Very well, your grace,” Brienne told him. Her honest face showed disappointment, but she ordered the group to turn right, and they rode around to the north gate. Even from the outside, Bran could see the changes the Battle of the Bastards had wrought. Enormous white banners hung proudly from the outer curtain wall, the same his mother had ordered for King Robert's visit. The running direwolf of House Stark adorned Winterfell again.

 

Bran did not realize he was crying until the wind picked up. When he and his escorts reached the north gate, it was deserted, with only a few guards to protect it. The prince said little as Brienne declared their purpose and the outer gate swung open, taking in his home with wide blue eyes. Over the moat they went, and through the inner gate. The entrance to the crypts was nearby, also deserted, as were the ruins of the glass gardens. Bran thought of his baby brother down there, buried with the scary old Kings of Winter, and closed his eyes against a new flood of tears.

 

“Watch out!” warned one of the Vale knights, taking the reins tightly as his horse panicked.

 

Before Bran could react, a massive white wolf had jumped onto his sled, scattering the remaining logs Brienne's men had used to light the campfires. An eager tongue licked at his face, making Bran laugh despite himself.

 

“Ghost! Stop!”

 

His cousin's direwolf watched Bran with intelligent red eyes. The boy buried his gloved hands in the coarse, snow-white fur.

 

“I'm glad you're here to greet me,” he told the wolf quietly. “I wish Summer were with us, too.”

 

Ghost seemed to understand. He nudged Bran with his large head, silent as always.

 

They hadn't even arrived at the Great Keep when a man dressed in Stark gray ran toward them. A tall young woman with long, auburn braids followed as closely as her skirts allowed, and a smaller man dressed in green brought up the rear.

 

“Bran!” shouted Jon joyfully, sprinting to the sled and kneeling at his side (after giving Ghost a gentle nudge). Bran looked up at him in awe. Jon had grown up so much! The resemblance between him and Father was incredible, though the crown of swords on his head was new. “I saw you coming through Ghost's eyes,” he admitted quietly. “Welcome home, brother!”

 

Sansa knelt on Bran's other side, smiling and weeping. She wore a crown as well, a thin iron band with winter roses made of bronze. “Oh, Bran!” she cried, bending to hug him. “I'm so glad you're safe!”

 

The Vale knights and Bear Islanders scattered, giving the Starks their privacy. Meera, forgotten for the nonce, ran to embrace her father. Only the Wintersguards remained, guarding their charges from a short distance.

 

“It's good to be home,” Bran told them, blinking up at his family through teary eyes. “You look well.”

 

Jon gave him a small, crooked smile. “We've been better, but we've been worse, too. We have much to tell you, when you've recovered from your journey.”

 

“I have much to tell you, too,” Bran told him seriously. He _dreaded_ the moment he had to tell Jon he wasn't Father's son; there was no possible way he would be happy about that; not Jon, who was more like Father than any of Ned Stark's children!

  
“Where is your direwolf?” Sansa asked, looking in vain for a second wolf. When Bran's face fell, she bowed her head in understanding.

 

“Summer died protecting me from wights, just like Hodor and Jojen,” he mumbled shamefully. “I couldn't help them.”

 

Jon's eyes had gone wide. “You've met wights?”

 

Bran nodded. “Uncle Benjen has, too. He almost became one, but the Children stopped it. He's gone all cold,” the prince told them, frowning at the lack of proper words to describe his uncle, “but he's not dead. It's hard to explain.”

 

“Why didn't he come with you?” Jon wondered. “Surely if he's almost a wight, he's free of his oath to the Watch?”

 

“As free as you are?” Bran asked ruefully. The memory of his cousin's stabbing made him shudder. That was a vision he'd never asked to see. “He's not like you, Jon. He never actually died, but he's a lot closer to dead. The magic of the Wall wouldn't let him pass.”

 

“We should go inside,” Sansa decided. “Bran needs to get out of the cold, and rest and eat.”

 

Jon nodded in agreement. “Lady Brienne, we'll need a litter, or two strong men to carry Bran to his chambers.”

 

“I'll find some, your grace,” she promised, wandering off in search of volunteers.

 

“Oh, Bran,” sighed Sansa. “I can't believe you're home, but I'm so glad!”

 

“Me too,” Jon told him, watching him with those Stark gray eyes that missed nothing. “You won't believe what's happened around here.”

 

“I doubt that,” Bran promised wryly. He allowed Brienne's volunteers to carry him into the Great Keep, and up the stairs to the family wing. Jon, Sansa, Ghost, and the Wintersguards followed like ducklings until he'd been placed on his old bed. Jon dismissed them all with a regal wave of his hand, but not before asking for food.

 

“He's good at that, isn't he?” Bran observed to Sansa, who grinned.

 

“He used to act and speak like a Lord Commander,” Sansa explained, watching Jon shut the door. “But I've been training him to act and _dress_ more kingly.”

 

“Just because you don't like black—” Jon protested, catching the end of Sansa's comment as he returned to Bran's bedside.

 

“It's not just the black, Jon! The rips in your shirts, the holes in your stockings! A king can't have _holes_ in his stockings!”

 

Bran laughed for the first time in ages. Finally, he felt at home.

 

“That was _one time_!” Jon protested, though his eyes shone with mirth. “And it was right after a battle! Who has time to mend stockings after a battle, I ask you?” the King in the North complained, his accent growing more and more northern in his exasperation. “And I challenge you to find a man who doesn't rip his shirts now and then after a good sparring match, or after repairing buildings and hauling barrels of supplies. I don't just sit around and look kingly all day, you know!”

 

Bran laughed harder, and this time Sansa and Jon joined him. Only when tears streamed down Sansa's face did they calm down. A timid knock at the door revealed one of the kitchen maids, carrying a tray with three bowls of stew, a plate of bread, and three tankards of ale. Bran wagered it was the same fare they were serving to the men and women in the Great Hall, and smiled at his sister and cousin.

 

“Well, we have plenty of tales to tell you, and you have some for us. Where should we begin, Bran?” asked Jon, picking up a bowl and dipping his bread in it.

 

“I'll start,” Bran said.

 

In between bites of food, he told them of his dreams after his fall; of waking up and finally naming his direwolf, Summer. He spoke of Tyrion Lannister, and the plans he'd left for a saddle that would carry even a cripple. He told them of the Greatjon's fingers and Robb's departure; of Osha, Meera and Jojen, of Theon's betrayal and of hiding in the crypts while Winterfell was sacked. The words became more and more difficult, due to the great lump that had formed in his throat. He told them of poor Maester Luwin's death, and how he and Rickon had escaped, leaving their people to the Boltons. He'd been a complete failure as Lord of Winterfell, and the smallfolk had suffered for it.

 

“Bran, _no_ ,” Jon cried, dropping his empty bowl and hugging him fiercely. Bran soaked his cousin's clothes with his tears, but Jon didn't seem to mind. “I _know_ how you feel, brother. I failed at my duties too, and for some reason the Red Witch brought me back, when so many others die and never return, or they come back as slaves to the White Walkers. But _this wasn't your fault_ ; Robb took the men south, and Theon betrayed us; what else could you have done?”

 

“I don't know,” Bran sobbed. “Something. _Anything_.”

 

Sansa watched in sympathetic silence, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she allowed them this moment. Bran knew she'd had her failures too, but she'd never been responsible for so many lives. Jon understood where she could not.

 

When Bran had composed himself, Jon released him and returned to his perch at the foot of his bed. There was no shame or judgment in those gray eyes. The silent support helped Bran overcome his embarrassment.

 

“Where did you go after you escaped?” Sansa asked finally, her hands wrapped delicately around her tankard of ale.

 

Bran spoke of the Tumbledown Tower and Queenscrown, where he'd attacked wildlings from inside Summer's skin. He told them he'd seen Jon that day, and helped him escape. Jon's eyes went wide, but he did not interrupt. He went on, telling them of the Nightfort, as well as his meeting with Samwell Tarly, and of crossing the Wall to the north. The afternoon turned into evening, and the weak sun disappeared. As Bran spoke, Jon lit some candles and added wood to the fire.

 

Sansa's and Jon's faces scrunched in confusion as he told them of the three-eyed crow, the Children, green dreams and greenseers, and wights. Bran told them of Brynden Rivers, weirwood paste, and how he had learned to see through the eyes of the weirwood trees.

 

“It was you,” Sansa breathed. “When we set the trap for Littlefinger in the godswood.”

 

Bran nodded. “I saw him hold a dagger to Father's throat in one of my visions,” he explained. “I knew he couldn't be trusted. I had to help you.”

 

Before he lost his nerve, Bran told them of seeing the Night King, and showed them the mark he'd left on his arm. In a rushed jumble of words, he told them of Hodor's sacrifice, Bloodraven's death, and his flight south with Meera and Uncle Benjen.

 

“The Night King _touched_ you?” Jon asked, looking at Bran in horror.

 

Bran nodded in shame, clutching his marked forearm. “I'm not sure what the mark is for, but it destroyed whatever protected that cave,” he told them. “And it was all my fault; because I had to go poking around!”

 

“Bran,” sighed Jon. “Any battle commander would tell you that information is crucial. You were only trying to see what we're up against.”

 

“And what if he can follow me wherever I go, because I have this?” Bran cried, lifting his arm. “What if he comes to Winterfell?”

 

“Then I'll say hello with _this_ ,” Jon replied, showing Bran his Valyrian steel sword. “Longclaw, the ancestral sword of House Mormont. It's killed a White Walker before, and it will do so again.”

 

Of course he'd say so. Jon was nothing if not brave, and a fierce defender of the Starks. It only made Bran's next tale harder to tell.

 

“Jon,” Bran said, hesitating. “I must tell you this, but you'll hate it. You'll hate _me_.”

 

That got his cousin's attention, and Sansa's too.

 

“What is it?”

 

“In one of my visions, I saw a tower in the mountains of Dorne,” Bran said slowly. “I saw Father and his companions fighting Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent.”

 

Jon and Sansa glanced at each other. Bran was not sure what they meant by it.

 

“Jon—I saw your birth,” he said quickly. “I love you like a brother, but you're _not_ our brother. You're Aunt L—”

 

“Lyanna's son?” Jon asked, giving Bran a small, crooked smile. “I know. Lord Reed told me the story, and he brought documents to back it up.”

 

_Oh_.

 

Well, that was a surprise. And a relief, if Bran was honest with himself. Jon was strangely unruffled about the whole thing, however.

 

“I didn't think you'd be so calm,” Bran confessed.

 

“I wasn't, when he first told me. I might have shouted a bit, and felt sorry for myself. And it didn't help that Jaime Lannister was here, talking about how great my father was,” Jon replied honestly. “I've had weeks to get used to the idea. And it helps that Rhaegar didn't actually kidnap and rape Ly—my mother, I suppose.”

 

“The whole council knows,” Sansa told Bran. “Jon told them all as soon as we found out, and he's still king, somehow. I think the lords were shamed into staying loyal by Jon's wildlings; _they_ don't care whose son he is.”

 

“That's about the size of it,” Jon agreed. “Tormund may have saved my life that day. That said, if you'd like to take over, I will hand over my title in an instant,” he offered, holding out his crown. Sansa groaned in annoyance.

 

“I told you I wouldn't allow it,” Bran replied, grinning at the cousin he loved like a brother. “I have enough to do as a greenseer—and Lord of Winterfell, I suppose, though Sansa has done a fine job with that as far as I can see. I've been trying to find anything in the crypts that can help us, and tell us how the White Walkers were defeated the first time.”

 

“Why the crypts?” asked Sansa in confusion.

 

Bran shrugged. “They're the oldest part of Winterfell, and I've been thinking about the iron swords. Is it like Father said, and the swords keep the restless dead inside their tombs, or are they there to protect something? If the dead turned to wights back in Bran the Builder's day, why do we bury our dead instead of burning them? And how did our ancestors defeat the White Walkers before they had Valyrian steel? They didn't even have _iron_ until the Andals crossed the sea _._ ”

 

“I have no idea,” Jon confessed. Sansa agreed with him.

 

“Well, I'll go back as far as I can using the heart tree, and let you know if I find anything interesting. In the meantime, I have something for you, Jon.”

 

Bran removed the bundle he'd hidden inside the furs he'd traveled in. Sansa looked politely puzzled, but recognition flared in Jon's eyes as soon as he saw the hand-and-a-half longsword, with its dragon-adorned pommel and cross-guard.

 

“It can't be,” he said reverently. “Blackfyre?”

 

“The very same,” Bran told him, handing the blade to Jon with a smile. “Brynden Rivers took it to the Wall with him, and kept it in the cave all these years. Aegon the Conqueror's sword is now yours, Aemon Targaryen.”

 

Jon flinched. “Bran, please. I'm still Jon.”

 

“I know; you'll always be my brother at heart, but the sword is yours. I've seen Daenerys Targaryen in a vision or two, and I can tell you she'd never wield this sword, even if she had the training; it's too big for her. That leaves you, the last Targaryen prince. And it's Valyrian steel, conveniently enough.”

 

“Yes,” Jon said softly, inspecting the old sword. “I'm used to Longclaw, though. I can't wield both at the same time, and we don't have a smith that can melt either down into smaller weapons. If we did, we could turn this into several daggers, or even arrowheads. I'll have to give Blackfyre to a worthy swordsman.”

 

“Jon!” protested Sansa. “You can't give away your family sword, not like that!”

 

The King in the North shrugged. “Blackfyre is just another sword to me. A legendary one, to be sure, but I don't feel like it's _mine_. The Starks are my family.”

 

“We know, Jon,” Sansa told him gently. “But you're a Targaryen prince, too. Now that you've told everyone, you'll have to take the title and everything that goes with it—like legendary swords.”

 

“I agree,” Bran told them. “Why don't you give Longclaw to Lady Brienne? I got half of Father's sword from Jaime Lannister,” he told them, showing them a second sword hidden among his things. “If we can get the other half from her, we could see about reforging Ice, and Longclaw would be a suitable replacement for the Lady Commander of our Wintersguard. You could pass down the sword with the title.”

 

“We don't have a smith that can reforge Father's sword,” Jon objected. “And how did you convince Ser Jaime to give up his blade?”

 

“We traded,” Bran confessed. “I gave him Dark Sister, and he gave me Widow's Wail.”

 

“Widow's Wail?” Jon said in disgust. “Who came up with _that_ name?”

 

“Joffrey, of course,” Sansa sighed. “He couldn't even give Father's sword a decent name, the useless, inbred, Lannister sack of shi—”

 

“Sansa!” cried Bran, wide-eyed.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing, it's just—I've never heard you curse like that,” Bran said sheepishly.

 

“Oh, that,” Jon said, keeping his expression neutral. “I've been teaching her to speak like a Princess in the North, or a spearwife, depending on the situation. She's good at that, isn't she?”

 

Bran's burst of laughter was heard around the Great Keep. “You've been hard at work teaching each other, haven't you?”

 

“Aye,” Jon said fondly. “Princess Sansa insists I must learn to act kingly and play the harp, like my father before me.”

 

“And King Jon has been educating me on the old wives' tales of the North, and swears from beyond the Wall,” Sansa told Bran. “ _Not_ like my mother before me.”

 

“I'll say,” Bran agreed with a grin.

 

“Well,” said Jon, getting to his feet. “We have over two hundred new arrivals, and this kingdom won't run itself. I need to leave you for a bit, brother.”

 

He ruffled Bran's hair, and Bran blinked back tears at the memory of his father and Robb doing the same thing, so long ago.

 

“You have to come back tomorrow, Jon,” Bran told him. “You and Sansa still need to tell me _your_ stories.”

 

“What, you didn't see it all through the weirwoods, since you're the Three-Eyed Wolf?”

 

“Of course not!” Bran protested. “I'm still learning, and there aren't enough hours in the day to follow all of my family, all of the time. Besides, I wouldn't follow you to the privy, or into your bath.”

 

Jon's dark eyes went wide, and then he flushed in sudden horror.

 

“Don't worry, your grace,” Bran teased. “I didn't watch you with Ygritte, either.”

 

“Brat,” huffed the King in the North, still a very becoming shade of crimson. He said goodbye to Sansa, and then excused himself from Bran's bedchamber with a shake of the head.

 

Bran rearranged his pillow, and wiped at the half-dried tears on his cheeks. He was as comfortable as he could be, and fire crackled merrily a few feet away. From the foot of his bed, he heard Ghost snoring; he could almost imagine it was Summer. Sansa took some needlework out of her apron pocket and went to work, humming a familiar tune to herself as Bran drifted off to sleep.

 

It was good to be home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the original ending to the Bran chapter, and we'd see later on how his new 3ER status would confuse and concern his family, but I've revised that since the show's finale. I'm really annoyed with the show's habit of glossing over important details. Rickon who? Bran knows everything now? Let's not ask how. Jon is released from the NW? Let's not ask why! Sansa knows that Littlefinger killed people? Let's not ask how she knows, or why she didn't expose him before! The Lord of Winterfell is too busy sitting under a tree to be Lord of Winterfell? Let's not--eh, you get the idea.
> 
> So, in the new Chapter 4, Bran will reveal his talents to the council of the North.
> 
> As always, let me know if you enjoyed the chapter (or even if you didn't)!


	4. Bran II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new Three-eyed Raven gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aemon the Dragonwolf has just passed the year mark on this site. I can't believe it's been a year already, but I've enjoyed the ride and I hope you will, too. :)
> 
> Thank you Queen KK!

**BRAN II**

 

Jon and Sansa woke Bran early the next morning, insisting that as the Lord of Winterfell (and the King in the North's closest male relative), he belonged on the king's council. It was the furthest thing from Bran's mind, though he reluctantly agreed to make an appearance. With the help of Jon, Young Artos, and Joren, the Three-eyed Raven bathed, dressed in Robb's old clothes, and allowed the Wintersguards to carry him downstairs.

 

Lords hailed him as he went past; some he remembered, and others he knew only by their sigils. Tormund the wildling grinned at him, while Howland Reed gave Bran a respectful nod. Once they'd reached Jon's solar, his guards set Bran down carefully on Jon's right. Sansa's place had been moved to Jon's left, as she was no longer Lady of Winterfell—at least for the nonce. Jon and Lord Davos murmured names to Bran when prompted, so he would not embarrass himself in front of Winterfell's bannermen. Bronze Yohn had brought a younger Vale knight along, the only two on the council. Jon named him Harrold Hardying, Robert Arryn's heir.

 

All chatter ceased as Jon's Hand began the meeting.

 

“My lords,” he said gravely, “be welcome to the Council of the North. Our first item of business is to welcome back Prince Brandon Stark from his time north of the Wall,” Davos Seaworth informed the council, and there was a round of cheers and claps. Bran fought the urge to slide down his chair. He did not deserve such a welcome.

 

“Jon, I want to speak,” Bran said softly, nudging his cousin. Jon heard and stood at once, raising an arm to call for silence.

 

“My lords and ladies, Lord Stark wishes to speak to you,” he said, sounding every bit the King in the North.

 

“Forgive me if I do not stand,” Bran said, determinedly looking at the men and women in front of him, instead of down at his lap. “I am grateful for the welcome I've received, truly. All of the praise should go to Lady Meera Reed, who protected me against all odds when my other companions were gone. If there is anything I may do for you or yours, Lord Howland, I will do it gladly; I'm sure King Jon would say the same.”

 

“I would,” Jon agreed easily.

 

The Norrey clapped poor Lord Reed on the shoulder, and nearly sent the smaller man flying off his chair. A few others chuckled at the sight, but Meera's father took it all in stride.

 

“There is nothing we require at the moment, your graces,” he said softly, “but thank you.”

 

“I'm sure many of you wondered why I passed north of the Wall, instead of looking to my cousin for refuge,” Bran went on. Jon and Sansa turned to him in alarm; they had no idea what he might reveal, or how the council would react to it, but Bran knew his duty. “I did so because I was called, my lords. Do any of you remember the tales of green dreams and greenseers?”

 

Lord Reed nodded, and so did a few of the clansmen. Tormund Giantsbane frowned, deep in thought, but most of the council looked politely confused.

 

“After I fell from the Broken Tower, I was visited in my dreams; the visitor was Brynden Rivers, or the Bloodraven,” Bran explained. “He went north long ago, and met the Children of the Forest. Until recently, he was the Three-eyed Raven. Now he is dead, and that duty falls to me.”

 

“Your grace,” asked Bronze Yohn carefully, “what does that mean?”

 

“It means that I have access to more knowledge than I will ever be able to use,” Bran replied, finding his own explanation awkward. It was so _difficult_ to put into words what being the Three-eyed Raven entailed! “I can see through the weirwood trees, things that are happening now, and things that happened long ago. I can fly with the crows, or run with wolves. It also means,” Bran went on, knowing this would cause a stir, “that I cannot serve as Lord of Winterfell. I must use my skills to find a solution to the Long Night.”

 

He'd been right. There was a storm of questions, protests, and arguments, until Ser Davos called for silence by banging a heavy book against the table.

 

“This is difficult to believe, I know,” Bran acknowledged, “but I can prove it. Would one of you please name a historical event you would like to see?”

 

Lord Glover frowned; Bran didn't know if it was disbelief, or if he was deep in thought. Little Lady Mormont had closed her eyes, muttering under her breath. Perhaps she was recalling her lessons, thought Bran.

 

Lord Cerwyn stood awkwardly. “Your grace, I'm quite curious—and I'm sure many of us are—about the events that led to Lord Eddard's murder, but I would not ask you to view such a thing—if, indeed, it is possible.”

 

Sansa closed her eyes as though the mention of it pained her, but said nothing. Bran saw Jon take her hand in his, and squeeze it in silent support. His glare at Lord Cerwyn was not subtle.

 

“How about the famous duel between Cregan Stark and Aemon the Dragonknight?” suggested the Flint, earning several nods of agreement.

 

“Your grace, could you show us the Lady Lyanna?” asked Lord Howland in his quiet manner, and the room hushed at once. Jon's grey eyes went wide. Clearly, the thought of seeing his mother, _living_ instead of a gray statue in the crypts, had never occurred to him.

 

Bran had only intended to prove his status as a greenseer, but this would be perfect. With just one stroke, he could show Jon his mother, prove to the Northmen that Lyanna Stark had gone with Rhaegar Targaryen willingly, and reveal the usefulness of his gift.

 

“Of course,” Bran answered, looking to Jon for permission. Jon gave it with an uncertain nod.

 

Meera and Young Artos had helped him with the paste before the meeting. Bran produced a small weirwood bowl, taken from the cave where he had met Brynden Rivers, full of mashed weirwood seeds. There was enough to give each member a spoonful—enough to take them along for one vision, no more.

 

“This is a special paste made from the seeds of Winterfell's heart tree,” Bran explained. It also had a bit of his blood, but Bran was not about to tell them that. “Though you are not greenseers, if you eat some of this, you can follow me into any vision I wish to show you. I must warn you, the flavor is not pleasant,” he added, remembering his first taste of the stuff.

 

“It sounds a bit like the Shade of the Evening they use in the East,” Ser Davos commented. “Tastes awful, turns your lips blue, and gives you visions, or so I've heard.”

 

“We ought to finish the meeting before that, however. Since I will be quite busy as the Three-eyed Raven, I wish for Sansa to take over as Lady of Winterfell,” Bran announced. “I know that I will never have children, so Winterfell must go to Sansa, and her children after that.”

 

“Bran,” Sansa protested weakly, but there was nothing to say. She knew the laws of inheritance as well as anyone, and unless Arya returned, she was the last Stark who could carry on the family name.

 

“The portion of Robb's will disinheriting Sansa must, of course, be revoked,” Jon told his council. “She was a prisoner of the Lannisters at the time, and Robb had no way to know that she would find herself back home, _without_ any Lannisters. I propose making Sansa Stark, Princess in the North, Lady Stark of Winterfell once more.”

 

The council voted. Though some hands came up more reluctantly—and the Starks marked their owners well—the vote was unanimous. Bran supposed her part in trapping Littlefinger had earned back some of the respect she'd lost by keeping the Vale army secret.

 

“Very well,” Ser Davos told them. “Princess Sansa is now officially Lady of Winterfell, while Prince Brandon serves the realm as Three-eyed Raven. Our second item of business is the new arrivals from the Dreadfort,” he went on, and Bran's good mood evaporated. “Maester Mors, have you the final numbers?”

 

The frail old maester, on loan from Castle Cerwyn, stood and bowed. “I have, my lord Hand. We received one hundred and seventy women, six-and-forty men, and twelve children. All were taken from Winterfell when the Boltons took the castle, or after. Nine-and-twenty others perished on the road, and were burned as His Grace ordered.

 

“So many women,” murmured the Norrey, shaking his head. “And with winter upon us. Damn those Boltons, and the Ironborn whoresons, too!”

 

“It is likely that another score will perish within the week, my lords,” the maester admitted. “We've done all we can for them, but after years of neglect and torment, bandages and soup cannot reverse all of the damage. Many of them, especially the women, are afraid of their own shadows. Some won't say a word, even to their remaining family.”

 

Each word was a dagger into Bran's heart. Despite Jon's reassurances from last night, he felt his failure keenly. He knew the feeling would not go away until he'd _done_ something for these people, even if it was save them from the Night King.

 

“We have to do more for them,” Sansa spoke up. “But what?”

 

“The problem with you kneelers is that you don't teach your women to protect themselves,” Tormund spoke up, earning indignant glares from the Northmen. “Among the Free Folk, a father's duty is to train his sons _and_ his daughters. That way, if an unworthy man tries to steal a girl, she can gut him where he stands.”

 

Jon's face brightened. “Would some of your spearwives be willing to train our women, if they wish it?”

 

“Aye,” the red-bearded Wintersguard replied. “They know there's nothing worse than facing an enemy you can't fight,” he said, looking haunted. Bran knew he was thinking of the White Walkers. “Give a woman a knife, or a spear, or even a bow; train her to use it, and she has little to fear from ordinary men.”

 

“Hear, hear,” Lyanna Mormont spoke up, glancing at the wildling with respect. “On Bear Island, women of House Mormont pick up practice swords and battleaxes as young as five. That's why no Mormont has been taken for a salt wife in centuries, though the Ironborn have certainly tried. We mount the weapons of those who attempt it in our trophy room, and their heads on spikes outside Mormont Hall,” she told them smugly. “If any of these women wish to learn the ax, I will volunteer my own master-at-arms to teach them.”

 

“I know this is quite a break from tradition, my lords,” Jon said, looking at the men who appeared most unsure, “but think of all that the women of the North have suffered. How many of the Ironborn could they have killed, if they'd only known how?”

 

Lady Tallhart nodded slowly. Torrhen's Square knew better than most what happened when the Ironborn caught one unawares. Even Robett Glover looked convinced. Lord Royce and his young companion were still frowning, but as their women were safe in the Vale, this decision did not affect the Vale at all.

 

“Then let us go forward. If you know of any man who would be willing to help with this endeavor, please let Ser Davos know,” Jon ordered. “In the meantime, we will see to our guests' other needs, and place as many of them back in their homes as will fit.”

 

Ser Davos took up his list. “Next is the building materials recovered from the Dreadfort's North Tower. Half have been sent to Deepwood Motte, and half to Torrhen's Square. When we can spare the men, more will follow until we have dismantled every stone of that keep.”

 

Lord Manderly looked incredibly pleased with himself. “There is a second barge coming down the White Knife, guarded by my best men, carrying the treasure hoard of the Boltons. If your grace will permit it, we could trade it all for food. The gold and silver we've recovered could feed the army for a year. If the Boltons had an account with the Iron Bank, those moneys belong to Princess Sansa now, so there may be more.”

 

Jon, Sansa, and the council were quite happy with these news, though Bran found his attention wandering. Just as Jon opened his mouth to agree, Lord Royce spoke up.

 

“Your grace, whom would you trade with? Jaime Lannister said his sister blew up the Great Sept of Baelor, and the Tyrells with it. Now Daenerys Targaryen is heading west; the South will be embroiled in another war soon enough.”

 

“Lord Willas and Lady Olenna Tyrell were not in King's Landing,” Sansa told him. “So at the very least, two Tyrells remain. If that fails, there's always Dorne, and Essos.”

 

“Aye, and the Iron Bank as well,” Jon added. “But I'd rather not take out a loan so large that the Iron Bank owns us all in the end. We must get what we need to survive, and no more.”

 

“Have you thought of taking a southron bride, your grace?” Lord Royce asked Jon suddenly. “A girl from a wealthy family, with a substantial dowry, could feed your people for some time.”

 

Bran felt, rather than saw, Jon flinch. “I've had little time to think of it,” he answered grimly, “but I can't imagine any gently-bred southron lady that would wish to come to the North in winter, to marry the man she thinks is Ned Stark's oathbreaking bastard.”

 

“Your grace, I must protest!” Lord Manderly boomed, the loudest of many. “My granddaughters would consider it an honor to marry Eddard Stark's nephew, and they are as gently bred as any southron girl! And we here know the circumstances of your release from the Night's Watch,” he added quickly.

 

“I mean no offense, Lord Manderly,” Jon soothed him, “but your granddaughters are ladies of the North, where the name Stark and the Night's Watch mean something. One is a house of dead fools, and the other is a joke, beyond the Neck.”

 

Tormund's face had scrunched up in confusion. “Are you saying kneelers _pay_ a man to marry his daughter? Why? He's gaining a woman to look after his house, bear his children, and keep him warm at night, is he not?”

 

“I'll explain later,” Jon promised with a slight twitch of the lips. Bran knew he was fighting back a smile. “In the meantime, my lords, I will gladly consider any possible brides you suggest— _consider_ only. I've little time for courting at the moment. Ser Davos, is there anything else?”

 

“No, your grace,” answered the Lord Hand.

 

“Then we'll go to the godswood,” Jon ordered with a nod at Bran.

 

Bran let his guards carry him downstairs, where a new chair awaited. Lord Royce had told Jon and Sansa of the wheeled chairs Prince Doran used to travel around his palace, and together, they'd designed a similar one for Bran. When Lady Brienne had wheeled him underneath the ancient heart tree, Bran gave a spoonful of weirwood paste to each member of the council, starting with Jon.

 

“This is awful,” Sansa said, shuddering at the unpleasant taste. Many others followed suit, though none declined it. Once Lady Brienne had taken the last spoonful, Bran put down the bowl.

 

“Everyone, hold hands,” he said, taking Sansa's hand. “Don't let go until we're inside the vision, or I won't be able to guide you.”

 

He placed his free hand on the weirwood, and closed his eyes, concentrating. When a clear picture of Lyanna Stark came to his mind, young and dressed in men's clothing, he opened his eyes. The snow had vanished. He, his family, and the council stood in a green clearing on a sunny day, under the shadow of an enormous ruined castle. Part of Bran's mind always remained in the present with his body, but the rest of him had traveled back in time to the Tourney of Harrenhal.

 

“Harrenhal,” breathed Lord Royce reverently. A few others were already looking at Bran in awe, but Jon's dark eyes darted around the clearing, looking for his mother. She had not arrived yet.

 

“How does this work, your grace?” asked a wide-eyed Lady Brienne. “Have we truly traveled back in time?”

 

“Only our minds,” Bran replied. “Our bodies are still under the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood.”

 

“Can we change anything?” Jon asked immediately.

 

“No, Jon,” Bran replied sadly. _You can't save them, brother._ “The ink is dry. We can only watch.”

 

Jon took this disappointment with good grace. He paced around the clearing a bit, quiet and solemn, taking in the sights.

 

The others were not so morose. It was like watching a bunch of children. Harrold Hardying, Lord Cerwyn, and several others had reached for the grass or the nearest tree trunk with hesitant fingers, reeling in surprise when their fingers passed straight through.

 

“I've never seen so much green,” the red-bearded Tormund said with a stunned look in his eye. “How far is this place from the Wall?”

 

“Oh, two thousand miles, at least,” replied a distracted Sansa. “This is the God's Eye, the largest lake in Westeros.”

 

“There is an island in the middle,” Howland Reed added, “called the Isle of Faces. It is there that the First Men and the Children of the Forest ended their war, and all of the weirwoods were given faces so the gods could witness the Pact.”

 

The wildling Wintersguard's mouth fell open. “My folk call that the Holy Island. I thought it was a myth.”

 

“Lord Howland,” Bran called out, knowing the moment was near. “My aunt is coming.”

 

Everyone froze.

 

With a feminine giggle, a squire burst through the trees on Bran's left. Her hair had been pinned up severely, to fit better under her helm. Her shield, dented and scratched, bore a laughing weirwood tree. Her breeches were too long for her, and none of her armor pieces fit correctly, but Lyanna Stark, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, was jubilant.

 

She took off her helm and tossed it into the lake with a grunt of effort. The God's Eye, despite its size, was calm on this windless day, and a summery shade of deep blue. Lyanna admired it for a moment, then went back to removing her armor. It was hard work without a squire to help her.

 

“That's her,” said Lord Glover, standing as close to the apparition as he dared. Jon had not moved an inch, but his gray eyes were fixed on his young mother. “ _Lyanna Stark_ was the mystery knight at the Tourney of Harrenhal?”

 

“Aye,” answered Lord Reed with a fond smile. “She was defending the honor of a friend, my lord.”

 

“We all knew she was formidable on horseback,” Lady Tallhart observed.

 

As Lyanna struggled to remove her pauldrons, a second figure entered the clearing. A silver-haired man with indigo eyes watched her in amusement.

 

“Do you need a hand with that, ser?” he offered, his musical voice startling Lyanna so much that she jumped. She turned quickly, and her face went white at the sight of the Crown Prince.

 

“Your grace!” she cried. “I can explain! This isn't mine, I was—”

 

Rhaegar Targaryen raised a hand, and Lyanna went still. “I have no intention of dragging you to face my father's pyromancers,” he promised, and Lyanna relaxed a bit. “I _did_ come to congratulate you on a fine performance, but if you insist you are not the mystery knight, then who am I to doubt a lady's word?”

 

“It _was_ a fine performance,” Lyanna said, with a crooked grin that reminded Bran of Arya. He knew he wasn't the only one reminded of their lost sister; Sansa was watching their aunt with a fond look, while Jon did his best impression of a statue on her other side.

 

“Why did you do such a thing?” the prince asked, unable to hold back his curiosity. “Surely the Northmen don't allow their ladies to joust?”

 

“Northmen don't joust much at all,” Lyanna replied tartly. “And if my father knew what I've just done, your grace, he'd lock me up forever. Though considering the alternative, that may not be so bad...”

 

She trailed off, looking unhappy.

 

“I challenged those three because they found my father's bannerman in the woods, and beat him without any provocation,” she explained, looking up at the prince. “He's small, and not a brawler like my oldest brother. Aren't southron knights meant to be all chivalry and honor, especially to the defenseless? If their knights won't teach them to behave, then I must.”

 

Lyanna Mormont looked as though she'd found a new hero. All her life she'd believed herself to be the namesake of a beautiful maid, taken and raped to death by an evil prince. The real Lyanna Stark they were seeing bore no resemblance to the story.

 

The Prince of Dragonstone looked just as intrigued. “They will never forget the lesson, my lady, I'm sure of it. To be humiliated at the joust in front of the largest tournament audience ever gathered; well, that's no small thing! Now, if your father won't allow his daughter to joust, how did you learn to ride so well?”

 

Lyanna's chin went up in defiance. “I did not learn to _joust_ , your grace. I never said I didn't learn to _ride_. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and the best rider in the whole of the North! They all say Lyanna Stark is half a horse; ask anyone.”

 

“There's no need,” Rhaegar answered, helping Lyanna remove the last of her armor and filling the pieces with small rocks to sink them into the lake. “I've seen you ride, Lady Stark, and I know enough of jousting to appreciate a master of the art; I believe you.”

 

Lyanna reached for her weirwood shield, the last of her mystery knight getup, but the prince stopped her.

 

“My lady, the king demanded that I find the mystery knight. I cannot give him that, but please, let me take this shield as proof of my search.”

 

The girl frowned. “Would that not make the king angrier?”

 

“Perhaps,” Rhaegar answered, “but there is no other option.”

 

“You never thought of giving me up at all, did you?” Lyanna asked, incredulous. “Why? I am nothing to you.”

 

The Prince's eyes flashed indignantly. “Lady Stark, I will not sentence a lady to death for knocking some smug squires out of the saddle! He is my father and my king, but I cannot do what he asks, do you understand?”

 

Lyanna nodded slowly.

 

“My father has very good spies, however,” Rhaegar said quietly. “When you return to camp, tell no one of our meeting, and say nothing of the mystery knight.”

 

“I won't,” Lyanna agreed, sounding shaken. Bran realized that until this moment, she'd been unaware of the very real danger she'd been in.

 

The Prince took Lyanna's hand in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. Bran's aunt blushed at the gesture. Sansa, standing next to Bran, was smiling at the lovely picture the couple made.

 

“Take care, Lady Lyanna,” the Prince of Dragonstone told her. “It is a shame you cannot advance in the tournament. I would have cheered for you, and for your noble cause.”

 

“Would you have given me your favor to wear, your grace?” Lyanna asked, recovering her composure with a jape.

 

“Gods, she really was like Arya,” Jon muttered. If the King in the North had tears in his eyes, no one mentioned it.

 

Rhaegar Targaryen grinned. It was Jon's smile, and just as rare. “Certainly; and then you'd be obliged to crown me King of Love and Beauty in return. Elia would laugh herself silly! But Cousin Robert might have something to say about that,” he added sardonically.

 

Lyanna scowled. “That man!” she cried. “He's been drunk every night so far, and he can't see a serving wench without grabbing at her ti—er—chest,” she finished awkwardly, remembering too late that she was in the presence of royalty, and not her uncouth brother Brandon.

 

The prince raised an eyebrow at her language, but he looked more amused than offended. “I take it you're not pleased with your betrothal?”

 

“Of course not! Why would I be pleased with a man who claims to love me in one breath, and is inviting another girl to his bed in the next? I don't understand what Ned sees in the big oaf.”

 

“I can't say I do, either, but he _is_ family, so I can't speak too ill of Lord Baratheon,” Rhaegar said, shrugging. “Now, I must return to my father, but before I go; my lady, may I see you again? Your conversation is most refreshing after years of King's Landing intrigue.”

 

Lyanna shrugged in return. “I'll be here until the end of the tournament, your grace, and then I'm going to Riverrun for Bran's wedding. You may see me anytime you wish.”

 

“Tonight, then. Here by the lake, after the feast,” the prince suggested, surprising Lyanna.

 

“When?”

 

“The hour of the wolf, of course,” Rhaegar Targaryen said with a grin that transformed his face, from its usual unearthly, sad beauty to a human of flesh and bone. “Until tonight, my lady.”

 

As Lyanna disappeared, Bran decided to show them one more thing, for Jon's sake as well as the council's. It was all well and good for Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna to have been in love, though some would still resent them for starting a war—but Bran was sure Jon would meet his aunt Daenerys soon, and he would do so with more confidence if he knew the truth of it all. A bastard love-child was one thing; the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne was an entirely different thing.

 

Bran concentrated once more, and Harrenhal jumped further away. They were now on the Isle of Faces, on a different day, in a grove of ancient weirwood trees, each with its own face. The trees swayed in the wind, scattering the grove with blood-red leaves. Underneath the largest weirwood stood a pair of lovers.

 

Prince Rhaegar, tall and handsome and dressed in his house colors, draped his dragon cloak around the shoulders of Lyanna Stark, radiant in a wedding gown of Stark gray and white. A few feet away, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent looked on, accompanied by several Green Men. The new princess stood on her tiptoes to kiss her tall husband.

 

“Gods, what Robert Baratheon would have thought of this,” murmured Ser Davos, earning some weak chuckles.

 

“She looks so happy,” Jon said, so quietly that Bran barely heard him. “I want to _shout_ at them; you _idiots_ , the realm is about to go to war because of you!”

 

“If it hadn't been them, it would have been something else, Jon,” Bran assured him. “The Mad King would have burned another Lord Paramount for a perceived slight, and everything would have fallen apart anyway.

 

“He's right, your grace,” Lord Royce answered. “War was inevitable as long as Aerys remained on the throne.”

 

“I know,” Jon replied, still watching his mother with the eyes of an orphan. “But did it have to be _them_?”

 

As much as it pained his cousin, Bran could see his stunt had already borne fruit. Men and women who had spent more than twenty years cursing the Targaryen name were watching Rhaegar with contemplative faces, remembering the promising man he'd been before the war. If anyone on the council had planned to use Jon's Targaryen heritage against him, they'd have a harder time doing so now.

 

Bran's head was pounding, as it usually did after a long vision. He took his audience back to their bodies in Winterfell. He had much to do as the Three-eyed Raven, but that was for him alone. Sansa would take care of their home, and Jon would lead the army of the North against the Dead, while Bran sought a permanent solution to the White Walker problem. The North was in the best possible hands.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A surprise Lyanna appears! I was going for an older Arya, less disdainful of girly things (unlike Arya, Lya was the only girl and didn't have to compare herself to a perfect older sibling). You'll have to tell me if it came across or not. ;-)
> 
> It really bothered me that show!Bran just spouted things he had no reason to know, and no one said "how would you know that, Bran?" But Bran had to get everyone on board; I almost had him show the council the Night King and his army, but he's a little freaked out by the arm-touching incident that the show glossed over, and he didn't really want to go looking for the Night King again. So Rhaegar and Lyanna came on board, when even I wasn't expecting it.
> 
> Next up...Dany makes her entrance into the story.


	5. Dany I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Targaryen arrives in Westeros at last, and meets the first of her allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, y'all! I'm back! I didn't mean to take so long, but there was some serious rewriting going on. You may thank Queen KK for this chapter. I was all ready to cut my losses with Dorne, kill some Sand Snakes, and move on as painlessly as possible, but she asked me to do Dorne the justice the show did not. I can't resist an appeal to book purism, so after painstaking research and too many lists of pros and cons and who goes where, three months have gone by and here you go.
> 
> Show Dorne never happened in this universe. Jaime wasn't there (he was in the Riverlands), Arianne exists, and Doran and Trystane are alive. While Cersei was a prisoner of the Faith, Arianne Martell tried a harebrained scheme to make Myrcella queen instead of Tommen, and instead, a rogue Dornish knight tried to kill 'Cella to provoke a war. So poor Myrcella is not dead, but she's scarred, her mother believes she's dead, and Tyrion is understandably pissed off. We're going with book Dorne, or at least, as close as we can go without introducing Young Gryff, the Golden Company and a possible Blackfyre threat. I'm not GRRM and I'm not going to try to include his 10,000,000,000 plot threads.
> 
> If you hate all things Dornish, don't panic. A story that focuses on House Stark and the North won't have a lot of room for Dornish scheming, but Dany had to land somewhere and Dorne made more sense than Dragonstone. We'll return to Winterfell for the next chapter, and then hang on to your breastplate nipples, because all hell will break loose.

**DANY I**

 

Dany woke with a jolt. She'd gone to sleep in her cabin on the flagship of her fleet, but a rough wave had sent her tumbling off the side of her bed. Ignoring the ache in her shoulder and hip, Dany stood and walked unsteadily to the porthole. Though it looked to be an hour or two after dawn, the sky was gray and the sea was churning violently. Far above the fleet, she could see her dragons soaring, free at last.

The Queen of Meereen sighed in annoyance. They had been sailing for almost five weeks. Moving this many soldiers took quite a bit of supplies, and her Greyjoy sailors had steered them well away from the ruins of Valyria, slowing down the fleet and forcing them to stop and resupply in Volantis and Lys. Though some of her Dothraki had adjusted well to crossing the Narrow Sea, many of her riders had succumbed to seasickness, and lay on their hammocks, weak and miserable, waiting for the journey to end. Their horses were suffering, as well; they looked thin and woebegone, and were constantly nervous.

Dany dressed in a deep red Meereenese gown. Though she had not worn Targaryen colors often in Essos, her Hand had insisted that her Westerosi allies would expect it. She was a dragon returning home, and she meant to look like one. She called her handmaidens into the room and ordered them to re-braid her hair, closing her eyes and ignoring the familiar pulling sensation in her scalp.

The Greyjoy siblings and her Hand sat in the council chamber when she entered, along with Missandei, Grey Worm, and her khals. All looked worse for wear except for the Ironborn.

"How much longer until we reach Sunspear?" Dany asked, taking her seat.

"If the storm lets up, we may arrive before sunset, your grace," answered the Queen of the Ironborn. "If not, we will dock on the morrow."

"Good," Lord Tyrion said, straightening in his chair with a theatrical groan. "I've had as much sailing as I can stand, and our meeting in Sunspear will be quite interesting."

His expression turned dark, no doubt remembering the news the Spider had brought from Sunspear. Dany's Master of Whispers had told them of an attempt to kill Myrcella Baratheon to force Dorne into war, an attempt that had left the girl scarred and terrified, and her cousin (and body double) dead.

Varys attempted to soothe him. "Prince Doran assures me that your niece's attackers will never hurt another child, Lord Hand," he said, quite serious. "and Prince Trystane cares deeply for the Princess Myrcella; he has sworn to wed her, despite her  _unfortunate_  disfigurement."

The Imp choked on his ever-present wine.

"Take a look at what  _unfortunate disfigurement_  looks like, you cockless wonder," Tyrion spat viciously, pointing to his own face. "Feeding Gerold Dayne to the scorpions won't heal my niece's face, or bring back Lady Rosamund, and it won't comfort Myrcella now that she _knows_ _how insane her mother is!_ " he finished with a shout, standing and throwing his goblet at the wall. " _My sister heard the news and burned down half of King's Landing and made herself queen!_  If Myrcella keeps even a  _shred_  of her innocence, I'll eat my breastplate."

"Sit down, Lord Tyrion," Dany commanded, firm despite her own misgivings. Her Hand had confessed, one long, stormy night on the ship, that he'd sent Myrcella to Dorne in an attempt to save her from the war, forgetting that the Dornish  _hated_  Lannisters. With just one dishonorable knight, Tyrion's niece had lost her ear, her beauty, and her trust in the goodness of human nature. Not even  _Joffrey_  had done so much damage.

"I will trust in Lord Doran's justice," she added, "unless he proves an unworthy ruler to his people."

Dany turned to the Greyjoys expectantly.

They unrolled a large map of southern Westeros, plotting the current position of the fleet. Then they added the position of other fleets and ground forces; Lord Theon and Queen Yara had last seen their uncle Euron on the Iron Islands, but since then they'd sailed east to Slaver's Bay, and now they had returned west. Lord Varys fretted about the Ironborn forming an alliance with Cersei Lannister; Euron Greyjoy had had enough time to do so, especially by raven, and he certainly had the ambition.

"Who rules the Stormlands?" asked Dany, still unsure about the region.

"I don't know," her Hand replied, rubbing a hand across his scarred, ugly face. "Stannis Baratheon followed his Red Priestess to the Wall and took a few thousand with him, but the rest were defeated at the Battle of Blackwater and never rose again. Lord Estermont bent the knee to Joffrey and was a guest at the wedding," he added darkly. "He's one of the men who testified against me, so he may have received the title of Lord Paramount for his efforts."

"Lord Estermont would be a natural choice to rule the Stormlands, though my little birds told me nothing of use about him," Lord Varys said. "The other lords might have protested while Stannis and Shireen Baratheon were still alive, but they met a rather shocking end in the North."

"How so?" Dany asked, raising an eyebrow. Her focus had been on the Ironborn and Cersei Lannister; the Usurper's dour younger brother had been no concern of hers until now.

"He marched his army to Winterfell and got stuck in a blizzard," Tyrion explained. "His Red Witch convinced him to sacrifice his daughter so the Lord of Light would melt the snows and give him victory over the Boltons. He burned that poor girl alive, or so we heard," he finished, shuddering, "and the snows didn't melt, nor did he win. His men deserted in droves before the battle, and went south as soon as they could find enough ships. A few of them passed through the Free Cities, and the story spread."

"That poor girl," sighed the Spider. From what Tyrion had told Dany, Varys had more reason than most to fear and hate witches and sorcerers. Dany shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The Red Priests and Priestesses of Essos were all too happy to preach in her favor, but she wanted no children sacrificed in her name.

"Let's move on," the queen ordered. She pointed to the Riverlands. "What is happening here?"

"Under Lannister control," Tyrion said promptly. "As a reward for butchering Northmen under guest right, Lord Walder Frey is now Lord Paramount of the Trident. The Freys can't hold that position without help, however, so Lannister troops ride to the rescue as needed."

"The Late Lord Frey will not oppose you, your grace," Lord Varys reassured Dany. "He's famous for siding with the winners, and begging your pardon, three dragons and an army of Unsullied, Dothraki, Reachmen, and Dornishmen will look like winners."

"He's not a very helpful ally, however," Tyrion said, "unless you need to cross his bridge to invade the North. And that would be an incredibly stupid move in winter."

Dany caught a haunted, guilty look on Theon Greyjoy's face, and chose to ignore it. Her Hand and her Spider had told her much of the man, and she knew he'd betrayed Robb Stark, the so-called King in the North, only to be caught by the Boltons and tortured for years. If the mere mention of Walder Frey made him squirm, so be it. It would be a reminder of the price of betrayal, should he get any ideas.

She leaned back until her spine touched the cushioned back of her chair.

"Will Prince Doran truly follow me, Lord Varys, when one could suggest his son's death was  _my_  fault?"

"Prince Doran is a clever man, your grace," the eunuch told her. "He cannot blame you for his son's foolishness, once the situation has been explained to him."

Dany tapped her fingertips against the arm of her chair. Marring her arrival in Westeros with the announcement of her host's son's death was not ideal. Despite her advisers' opinions, she still doubted. Prince Doran had lost his sister, niece, and nephew because of Rhaegar's madness and lust, or so the tales said. Now he'd lost his eldest son to her Rhaegal. Were the Lannisters  _so_  terrible that Doran preferred Daenerys and her children to them?

There was nothing she could do, despite her doubts. They would be in Sunspear soon, and she must present a queen's facade—bold, unafraid, and above all, happy to be home among her people.

With a sigh, Dany turned the conversation to the Vale of Arryn.

 

* * *

 

When they finally arrived, Dany disembarked with all the pomp and circumstance of a seasoned queen. Her healthiest Unsullied formed straight columns and marched as one, forming a shield around the silver queen, her companions, and their horses. Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys were resplendent in silk robes of crimson and plum, respectively. Even Missandei dazzled in a yellow gown that made her dark skin glow. The Greyjoys wore more practical clothing, but the kraken of their house shone brightly against the dark leather and mail. Daenerys herself glittered in a red and black riding gown. The small gems and heavy embroidery on the bodice and split skirt weighed her down, but Dany ignored this.

Behind them walked the captains of the Ironborn, and last of all came the healthiest of the Dothraki, their horses' manes shining as the last rays of sun struck them. The Dornish had come in droves to meet the fleet, and were waving lanterns and colorful flags as they cheered and sang. It was, Dany thought ruefully, the sort of welcome her brother had been told to expect.

All of the noise died as Dany's children appeared, far above the crowd. Dany prayed that her dragons would not choose this moment to come down and feed, and a knot of nerves formed in her belly. It did not leave her until they had passed the Threefold Gate and entered the Old Palace. The dragons seemed to have spotted a courtyard or garden inside the palace, because they circled lower and disappeared behind the palace wall. Dany sighed in relief, glad that no Dornish smallfolk would bring charred bones to her tonight.

For the first time in her life, Daenerys Targaryen looked up at the Spear Tower and the Tower of the Sun, with the ugly old Sandship between them. Viserys had not known much about Dorne, choosing instead to rave about the rebels' murder and rape of Princess Elia and the slaughter of their niece and nephew. Dany suddenly realized just how little she knew of the country she meant to rule. The thought was not comforting, especially now, when she could see Dornish nobles waiting at the base of the Tower of the Sun.

Daenerys dismounted and her companions followed suit. Quickly, stablehands appeared out of nowhere to take the reins of their horses, leaving the queen free to walk the rest of the way. The men and women she passed bowed gracefully. Dany approached the only man who remained sitting; it was Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne.

"Welcome, your grace," he said kindly. "Forgive me if I do not stand; I have recently returned from the Water Gardens, and the journey has tired me greatly."

"There is nothing to forgive, Prince Doran," Dany replied politely. "It was good of you to invite us."

"This is my daughter, the Princess Arianne," her distant cousin replied, motioning for the woman standing with him to step forward. She bowed slightly in a swirl of orange silks and clinking bracelets.

"Queen Daenerys, greetings," Arianne said, giving Daenerys a wide smile. She was at least eight years Dany's senior, but shorter and with a womanly body that left Dany feeling like a child. Her cousin's voice was kind and pleasantly husky, peppered with the Rhoynish drawl of the salty Dornishmen. "It is a pleasure to have you among us at last. My father and I offer you the hospitality of Dorne," she added, picking up a silver plate of bread from a servant. "Please, do eat of our bread and salt."

Dany took a piece, sprinkled salt on it, and ate. Her advisers followed her example, passing the plate back until it had reached Theon Greyjoy. It was odd to do this in full view of the entire Dornish court, but Dany supposed she could not blame them for being curious.

"Let us go inside," Prince Doran suggested, "and I shall introduce you to your loyal subjects, your grace."

The throne room inside the tower held twin seats on a dais; one bore the golden sun of the Rhoynar, and the other the spear of the Martells. Prince Doran's bodyguard wheeled his chair in front of the former, while his daughter took the other seat. Daenerys sat on the chair prepared for her, a cushioned affair draped in red and black, and watched the nobles filing in, trying to guess who they were from Tyrion's and Varys' information. Unlike most children of kings and Lords Paramount, Dany had never memorized the sigils and words of every house. She and Viserys had not had a Citadel-trained maester to teach them such things.

"Welcome, all," said the Prince of Dorne, once they had all been seated. "It is my great pleasure to welcome my cousin, Queen Daenerys, to Dorne at last. I know I speak for many of us when I say we have long awaited this moment."

"Hear, hear," shouted several nobles.

"If you would permit it, your grace," Doran said politely in his Dornish drawl, "I will present my lords, and your loyal subjects."

Dany nodded in agreement. She was getting hungry, and a delicious, spicy scent of food was wafting into the room from elsewhere, but the niceties must be observed. On her right, Tyrion's hands twitched nervously on his lap.

"This is Lord Anders Yronwood, the Bloodroyal and Warden of the Stone Way," the prince began, and a weathered, golden-haired man bowed promptly. "His daughter, Lady Ynys, and her husband, Ser Ryon Allyrion. And this young man is Ser Ryon's son, Ser Daemon Sand. Ser Daemon is one of the finest swordsmen in Dorne, and was squire to my late brother, Prince Oberyn. He serves as my daughter's sworn shield these days."

A terrible grief stole over the prince's tired visage. It was enough to distract Dany from the  _very_  handsome face of the Bastard of Godsgrace, a distraction she sorely needed. When the knight, his father, and his father's wife had straightened from their bows, she'd caught a glimpse of beautiful blue eyes and a roguish smile.

"Lord Franklin Fowler, Warden of the Prince's Pass, and his daughters, Lady Jeyne and Lady Jennelyn."

The girls were obviously twins, a rarity in the world, and a rarity in Dorne with their bright yellow hair—though perhaps, not as rare as Dany had first thought. There were several fair-haired, and even blue- or purple-eyed lords and ladies in the room.

"Lady Alyse Ladybright, my diligent Lord Treasurer."

"Lord Quentyn Qorgyle of Sandstone and his son, Ser Gulian."

"Lord Trebor Jordayne of the Tor."

"Lady Edwylla Wyl of the Boneway."

"Lady Larra Blackmont, and her daughter, Lady Jynessa."

"Lord Tremond Gargalen of Salt Shore."

"Lord Dagos Manwoody of Kingsgrave."

"Lady Allyria Dayne, representing Starfall in her nephew's stead until his return."

Lady Dayne was another breathtaking beauty, with her crow's wing hair and stunning purple eyes. Dany wondered what her lord and nephew could be doing that was more important than meeting his queen, and then dismissed the thought. The boy was probably squiring for a knight in some distant corner of the kingdom, and the raven had not reached him in time.

"Lord Harmen Uller of Hellholt, and his daughter, Ellaria Sand."

The late Prince Oberyn's paramour was a striking woman in orange silk, more captivating than beautiful, and as dark as Lady Allyria was fair. Her dark brown eyes were friendly and open, and shone as brightly as the jewels pinned to her hair.

"Lady Ellaria is mother to four of my eight nieces, but they are young girls yet," the Prince of Dorne added. "Should you wish it, they will be delighted to meet you at a later time, your grace."

"I would be happy to meet them," Dany agreed politely. She had never dealt much with others' children; even if she'd had the inclination, it was a painful reminder that she would never have babes of her own. But she must appear approachable to her new subjects, and this was only the beginning.

"My brother's eldest daughters are with us, however. This is Obara Sand," he introduced, and a large woman in her thirties bowed respectfully. She wore a tunic and breeches that fitted her well, and carried a spear with the ease of one trained with it. "Nymeria Sand," her half-sister bowed. They were night and day; Obara stocky and mannish where Nymeria was slim and beautiful, though Dany suspected the younger of the two was no less deadly. "And Tyene Sand." The third sister was golden-haired and blue eyed. "Sarella, the next oldest, is away from home at the moment."

Once Doran had introduced every relative and representative of his noble houses, he introduced the few that remained unnamed—the landed knights, and sometimes their children. Dany saw her Hand tapping his hand impatiently against the side of his hair, and wished they were seated at a table. It would have been easier to kick him without drawing attention that way!

"I am grateful, cousin," Dany said diplomatically. "I'm sure we shall have many years of friendship between the Iron Throne and Dorne in the future, and I will remember who stood beside me on the first day. I would beg a favor on behalf of my Lord Hand, however. Lord Tyrion is very eager to see his niece, and we have heard nothing of her since we sailed from Meereen."

The smiles dimmed.

"Princess Myrcella is resting in her chamber," Doran replied finally. "My own maester, Caleotte, is watching over her, as is my son Trystane. Ser Daemon will take you to her directly, Lord Tyrion."

The handsome bastard led the way, and Dany's Hand waddled after him.

"What has been done with the girl's attackers?" Daenerys asked.

"Ser Gerold Dayne and his accomplices will never harm another being," Lady Allyria said icily.

"Oh?" Dany prodded.

"There is an old punishment that the arriving Rhoynar adopted from the native Dornishmen," Lady Blackmont spoke up. "Any man who strikes a princess of the royal house shall be buried up to the neck in the most inhospitable part of the desert. Between the scorpions, the sun, and the thirst, Ser Gerold lived for less than two days."

"Lady Myrcella is not a princess of House Martell, strictly speaking," Lord Gargalen added with a quirk of the eyebrows, "but she  _is_  betrothed to a Martell. We thought it fitting, especially since the fiend did more than  _strike_  the poor girl."

Daenerys fought a shudder. She was sure that Gerold Dayne had earned every bit of his punishment, but she couldn't help but feel a bit of sympathy for him—and anyone—doomed to such a fate. It had been years since she had trekked across the red waste with three newborn dragons, but she could still remember wasting away to nothing in that terrible, empty land, and the relentless thirst that could make the bravest man despair.

"Come, your grace," Princess Arianne said brightly, pulling Dany out of her unpleasant memories. "We have a mighty feast prepared, to cheer us all before we discuss heavy subjects like war, vengeance, and winter. If you would like to dress for dinner, we shall reconvene in two hours."

Daenerys allowed her distant cousin to lead her to her chambers, with Missandei following. The suite of rooms she'd been given were handsome and furnished in vivid color, but nothing at all like her rooms in Meereen. The sun and spear motif on every wall was an unnecessary reminder that she was now in southern Westeros, and would sleep in her native land for the first time since her birth.

"I'm home," Dany said quietly to Missandei, once the Princess of Dorne had excused herself.

Missandei smiled. "You are indeed, your grace."

Someone had left her gowns in the Dornish style. They were fit for royalty, but too long and narrow to belong to Princess Arianne; Dany supposed Varys had given her hosts an estimate of her size. Though she'd brought along plenty of gowns, Dany knew it would please Prince Doran more if she went native tonight, and it would save her handmaidens the trouble of pressing all the travel-creases out of her own gowns while she bathed.

She chose a sleeveless purple and gold samite confection, with a matching cape that was more for decoration than warmth, and beaded golden sandals. Her maids brushed and re-plaited her silver tresses, and carefully placed her most delicate crown over the styled hair. As a finishing touch, they found a bottle of scent in the room. The moment her handmaiden uncorked the bottle, Dany was transported to her happiest childhood memories, of Braavos and the house with the red door. The smell of lemon blossoms was unmistakable.

She dabbed some of the perfume on each wrist and at her neck, then left her rooms for the banquet hall. Servants in Martell livery guided her and Missandei, who looked very nice in her own Dornish-style gown of bright turquoise, though there was no need. Dany simply followed her nose.

The banquet was a long parade of delicious dishes; some were spicy, some sweet, and some were both. The mood was jubilant, and Dany wondered how much of that was due to her own presence, and how much was just the natural high spirits of the Dornish. It seemed like tempting fate to celebrate, when her grand army had not been tested against the might of the Lannisters. But there was no doubt that the Dornish could throw a party. Dany had never heard music so lively in her life.

There could be no discussion of death or war in this setting. The war for Westeros lurked in the clever, observant eyes of Prince Doran, and the frowns of Lord Tyrion, but now was not the time to speak of it. Dany's Hand sat next to a pretty, golden-haired girl that must be his niece, Myrcella. She had styled her hair to one side, to hide the missing ear, and she bore an ugly scar on her face, but she seemed happy enough. A besotted Prince Trystane sat on her other side, and was so sweet and solicitous for his betrothed that it made Dany's teeth hurt.

Tyrion Lannister had told her much of his sister, a woman as cruel as she was beautiful. Dany looked carefully at Myrcella, trying to imagine an older, crueler version of her, but it was difficult. Myrcella did not look vicious in the slightest, despite being sister to a brother who had once tortured cats, and later women. It was a relief, thought Dany, that she would never have to meet Joffrey Baratheon, a mad king without any Targaryen blood to explain his lunacy. She owed Olenna Tyrell a great debt.

Dany sat between Prince Doran and Lord Yronwood. Neither man was feeling talkative tonight, though the queen knew it was not for lack of thinking. She'd been warned by both of her Westerosi advisers that Doran was a man who plotted much more than he spoke, and that mountains would fall and seas dry up before Doran Martell ran out of patience. The man had planned his revenge for over twenty years; he could certainly wait a few more hours, and Dany would have to do the same. At the very least, she had tasty new dishes to make the wait enjoyable.

 

* * *

 

The jolly atmosphere of the feast had dissipated entirely by the next morning. When Dany entered Prince Doran's solar, she saw serious faces and even sober clothing (by Dornish standards). Princess Arianne and Prince Trystane sat on either side of their father, while the prince's bodyguard kept watch behind his seat. Many of the nobles the prince had presented to her were present; the lords and ladies, if not their younger heirs. Lady Ellaria was there with her father, and so were Prince Oberyn's eldest daughters. Of Dany's party, she had brought along Missandei, the Greyjoys, Grey Worm, and Tyrion. Varys, so used to the shadows, flitted about the edges of the room.

Dany sat on the cushioned chair provided for her. She'd hoped for a private audience with Prince Doran, so they could discuss Quentyn without so many people listening, but it seemed that would have to wait. She was sure Varys would have said something, but she'd be a fool to trust the Spider. According to Tyrion Lannister, it was  _Varys_  who had turned her father against Rhaegar, and Varys who had informed the Usurper of her movements. The eunuch had his uses, but Dany would never depend on him as her father had done.

Prince Doran was not loud, but when he began to speak, there was utter silence among his court.

"Some of you have urged me to take action for years," he said quietly. "You have advised me, begged me, even, to avenge my sister and her children by going to war with the Usurper and his Lannister allies. Some of you believed me as weak in mind as I am in body; a craven who did not stir even at the expense of his family."

A few bowed their heads in shame, Princess Arianne included.

"I suppose it was my own fault. I did not take many of you into my confidence, because a treasonous plot known by everyone is a death sentence for all. But there  _was_  a plot, and it has been refined and revised as the years went by and new information reached my ears."

The prince paused for breath.

"I know many of you have wondered why my Arianne remains unwed; the truth is that I had planned to marry her to Prince Viserys since his flight to the east. Years later, it became clear to me that this could not be," he added, with an apologetic glance at Dany, "but the plot evolved; Quentyn, I thought, could marry the Princess Daenerys, the  _last_  Targaryen."

Dany thought his emphasis on  _last_  was a bit strange, even callous, but no one else seemed to notice. A tear fell from Princess Arianne's eye at the mention of her brother, and Prince Trystane bowed his head.

"Quentyn ran afoul of Her Grace's dragons," he said, to gasps from his court. "As a father, I am devastated. As a plotter, I should regroup from the loss and break Trystane's betrothal to Myrcella, to offer him to Queen Daenerys as a husband."

Dany's heart sank, and the younger prince looked at his father in horror. He was comely enough, Dany supposed, but he was younger than herself—a difference heightened by her years as ruling queen—and besotted with another! Surely his father would not be so cold?

"But I will not," the Prince said quickly. "There has been little happiness in recent years; I will not sacrifice my last remaining son's happiness for the hope of vengeance, even if Her Grace found him acceptable. We are kin, albeit distant," he added, "and we could form an alliance even without this marriage."

"Certainly," Dany replied, realizing that the prince and his court were all waiting for her to say something. "My family has broken enough betrothals," she added with an internal wince, thinking of her brother and Lyanna Stark. "And if you wish to see Cersei Lannister removed from the throne she usurped, that makes us natural allies."

Lord Yronwood smiled. It was a smile that promised pain to any Lannister men that crossed his path.

"Then our spearmen are at your disposal, your grace," Prince Doran said, giving her a half-bow from his chair. "My agents in King's Landing tell me that Cersei Lannister has formed an alliance with Euron Greyjoy," he informed them, and Queen Yara grimaced. "His fleet in exchange for her hand. The Reach has been in full revolt since the Usurper Queen blew up the Sept of Baelor with Mace Tyrell's family inside. The Greyjoy fleet is sailing to Oldtown as we speak, and it will be a bloodbath."

"Then we shall meet them there," Dany said bravely. "I have a Greyjoy and Redwyne fleet of my own, and brave Unsullied and Dothraki besides. We'll join our allies in the Reach, and add their strength to ours."

Overall, it was a productive meeting. Without the luxury of a Nymeros Martell prince to marry, Daenerys, Tyrion, and Varys hammered out the terms of their alliance. Prince Doran would serve the new Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men as Master of Laws. Lord Yronwood would command the Dornish spears. Ser Daemon would join her Queensguard. Favorable trade agreements with the Iron Throne would make Dorne prosper even in winter.

Ladies Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene Sand would join her court as ladies-in-waiting. A handful of loyal, deadly friends who could disguise themselves as harmless, twittering ladies, Prince Doran told Dany, would be a tremendously useful gift in the Red Keep. And in the future, the possibility of Arianne Martell's children marrying Daenerys' children was left open. Dany did not mention her barren womb. The Dornish would have plenty of rewards for siding with her, and she knew it would cause trouble later on, if new allies had nothing to bargain with.

She was leaving the room, armed with a small pile of agreements for Missandei to copy in her careful scribe's hand, when she caught Lord Varys and Prince Doran whispering together.

"—going on in the North?" the Prince was saying.

"—web of little birds is quite diminished after the war—" the eunuch replied.

"—how was he not executed for desertion?"

"—apparently there was a mutiny, and the Lord Commander was murdered—"

"—what nonsense!"

"Do you know, I've always wondered—"

It was impossible to eavesdrop further without discovery. Daenerys left the solar, wondering what on earth they could be discussing; but it was not important. The North could wait. For now, she had to save the Reach.

That night, Dany dreamed in white. The world was pale and utterly silent. She'd never seen anything like it during waking hours, but she knew it was snow. A figure approached her, and she saw he was casting no shadow to match hers. His eyes were a cruel, sharp blue. Dany opened her mouth to scream, and then...

The dream shifted. The pale king was gone, and so was the snow. Dany was sinking into a churning, black ocean. She fought to return to the surface, over and over. A ship passed her, making no sound except for the creak of wood, and Dany saw a man at the helm. He was handsome, with flowing black hair and an eyepatch over one eye. The other eye was blue and filled with a fierce joy. The captain grinned with blue lips, then lifted a sword and gave a soundless roar. A beast nearby shrieked in pain and rage, and Dany woke with a gasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really weird for me, because I wrote a lot of Dany months and months ago, but that was for future stories (including Parley, which has been up for ages). This is Dany's first *official* chapter in the entire series! She'll resemble her book self much more than her show self, so get ready for a Dany who doubts herself, is distracted by handsome men, and dreams of a family more than the Iron Throne.
> 
> Next up: we go back to where we started, to Winterfell, and get Sansa's perspective on Bran's return, the Dreadfort refugees, and the latest bad news. We also put some dearly departed family to rest.
> 
> To those of you who posted encouraging comments during the hiatus, thank you. XD I have no plans to abandon the story, but I appreciated them all the same.


	6. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa adjust to Bran's return, and their positions as king and princess. Bad news arrive, and the North decides if they will follow their king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, back to Winterfell.

**SANSA I**

 

Having Bran back at home should have been wonderful, and most of the time, it was. Sansa and her handmaidens had gone to work immediately, creating winter clothing for her brother so he would not need Robb's cast-offs, which were quite big on the lanky Bran. He'd grown in wisdom as well as height, if not breadth, and his advice, when requested, was well-reasoned and quite practical.

 

But there were times when Sansa barely recognized him. At table, the gently-mannered little boy had given way to a wolf, who ate every meal like he'd starved for years. It was all too easy to see that he _had_ starved in that faraway cave. He spent much of his time in the godswood, sitting motionless under the heart tree with blank eyes fixed on nothing. She knew what he was doing, of course, but seeing it still gave her the shivers. After a session at the tree, he'd often retire with a headache, leaving Jon and Sansa to wonder what he'd seen, and whether it was worth the pain.

 

When he wasn't at the tree, Bran had his Wintersguards—now wearing practical leather doublets with direwolves on the breast, and fur-lined cloaks in the silver-gray of House Stark—take him down to the crypts, where he'd stare at the tombs of their dead family for hours and say nothing. The sight of the new arrivals in the castle brought him pain, and he avoided them whenever possible. Jon and Sansa knew why, but they didn't know how to help Bran with his remaining guilt.

 

The former prisoners of the Dreadfort, sunken and beaten as they were, had taken to the spearwives' offer with surprising enthusiasm. Though a few women had refused, protesting that they couldn't fight, most had been eager to learn. A tall, fierce, black-haired spearwife named Maesha led the women who had chosen swords, while a pretty redhead that Sansa didn't know led those who now carried daggers. Lady Meera, Bran's friend, had begun a class of her own. Her people drilled with spears, and Meera's gentle encouragement was producing wonderful results.

 

“Aren't you interested in learning?” Jon had asked her one day, as they both looked over the handful of women learning the ax with Lyanna Mormont and her master-at-arms.

 

Sansa laughed. “Jon, I have twelve guards following me around, and you, _and_ Ghost. It's hardly necessary.”

 

“It couldn't hurt,” Jon insisted. “One moment of carelessness and you might be alone.”

 

“I'm not a fighter,” Sansa insisted.

 

“You don't know that until you try,” her king replied stubbornly.

 

“Jon,” Sansa said, gently but firmly. “I am not Arya, or Aunt Lyanna.”

 

“I never said you were!” he protested. “I'm trying to ensure that you can protect yourself when I'm gone, that's all! Training our smallfolk is all very well, but you have more enemies than they do.”

 

He was right, of course, but Sansa could not even imagine shoving a spear or a dagger in anyone's heart. Even when she’d dreamed and prayed for Joffrey to die, she had not wished to do it herself, except for one wild moment, when he’d made her look at her father’s head. Did that make her weak? Jon would never say so, even if he thought it.

 

“I doubt Cersei Lannister has time for me, now that your aunt Daenerys is heading her way with an army of Dothraki and Unsullied,” Sansa told her cousin breezily. “If she did, she'd send an assassin to poison me like they poisoned Joffrey; and no dagger can save me from that.”

 

They _had_ employed food-testers after Jaime Lannister had suggested it, knowing all too well that Cersei despised Sansa and would love to see her dead. So far, the food-testers had suffered nothing more than sore heads, when Jon was particularly troubled and overindulged on ale.

 

“I don't want to leave you unprotected,” Jon replied. “Any moment now, I might get news from the Wall and I'll have to go. I can't send my army to fight without me, especially when I'm one of the few with Valyrian steel, and one of the few who actually _fought_ these things before,” he said, placing a hand on the hilt of Longclaw. Though he'd owned Blackfyre for weeks, he still held on to the sword his Lord Commander had given him. Sansa had not thought him so sentimental; perhaps it was less about surrendering the old sword, than about accepting the new one, and all the history and responsibility that came with it.

 

“And you'll leave me here,” Sansa said heavily. It was logical, of course; she wasn't a fighter, Jon had named her his heir, and she was Lady of Winterfell to boot. This was her place, not the Wall. But the thought of watching Jon leave, perhaps forever, was dreadful. He'd been her constant companion since her journey to Castle Black, her home before winning back Winterfell—her _only_ family until Bran's return.

 

“Do you realize how long it's been since three Starks were in the same place?” she asked Jon with a pained smile.

 

“You girls and Father in King's Landing,” Jon replied, “or mayhaps Robb and the little ones, before he rode south.”

 

“And we'll be two again, while you go north like the Last Hero,” Sansa murmured. “I don't need weapons, Jon; I need to know you'll come back.”

 

“I thought you said not to make those kinds of promises.”

 

Sansa looked up. Her brother-turned-cousin was only a few inches taller than she, and his gray eyes were very serious as he peered down at her.

 

“I know you're a man of your word,” she explained, stepping into his arms. “If you say you'll come back, then you will, even from death.”

 

Jon held her in silence for a moment. Sansa was going to miss his hugs, frequent as they'd become. She didn't know if Jon had always been so tactile, and she'd never noticed in her childhood snobbishness, or if he'd become starved for physical affection at the Wall. It didn't matter.

 

“Then I'll do my best to return,” he said at last. “But let's not say farewell until we have to; Edd might be handling the wights just fine, with all the help we sent him,” Jon said.

 

It sounded like he'd failed to convince himself. He certainly hadn't convinced _her_. Things rarely went so well for the Stark family.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few days later, Jon had sent Geisa the Wintersguard to find Sansa and bring her to the crypts. There she found Bran in his chair, and Jon beside him, standing in front of the newest tombs.

 

“It's finished,” Jon told her, and Sansa saw that Rickon now had a statue in front of his tomb, like Father. After taking back their castle, Jon had found some papers in the solar, detailing the commission of Lord Eddard's statue. The stonemason had kept it in his shop, finished but safe from the Boltons, and Jon had kept to Father's tradition instead of the ancient Starks', commissioning a statue for Rickon even though he'd never been Lord of Winterfell. The two stood a few feet apart, with an empty tomb between them. If they ever recovered Robb's bones, they would rest between his father's and brother's.

 

“They look wonderful,” Sansa breathed, admiring the statues. The stonemason, a quiet man who had lived at Winterfell all his life, remembered the little boy Rickon had been. With Bran's presence, it was easier to imagine what an older Rickon should have looked like, had he not died a prisoner of the Boltons. Unlike the real Rickon, the boy in the statue was grinning, much like Robb used to. The stone Rickon was stocky and strong, not the half-starved, feral wildling Jon had seen running across the battlefield. At Rickon's feet slept a stone direwolf, much like the ones keeping the Kings of Winter company, down in the older levels.

 

“That doesn't look anything like Shaggy,” Bran said, looking down at it with critical eyes.

 

And yet, the wolf lay on a plinth with a neatly engraved SHAGGYDOG. It had always been a childish name, but it seemed even sillier now, set in stone among all the stern Brandons and Torrhens and Rickons of the past. If any Stark lived long enough to visit in a few centuries, they’d see the boy with his wolf and wonder at the cruelty that had placed him and his pet in the crypts so young.

 

Rickon’s plinth told only the barest portion of the story.

 

_RICKON STARK_

_292 A.C. - 303 A.C._

_PRINCE IN THE NORTH_

_MURDERED BY RAMSAY SNOW OF HOUSE BOLTON_

 

 

“Shaggydog was so wild that he'd never stay still as a pup,” Jon was saying. “I doubt that would have changed as he grew. Mayhaps Doric should have carved a blur of movement instead, but the poor man only had Ghost for a model.”

 

Bran, smiling slightly in response, handed Jon a simple sword, small enough for a boy. Jon leaned over Shaggydog’s stone twin and placed it in Rickon's hands, as was tradition. “Sleep well, brother,” he said softly, and Sansa blinked back tears.

 

They moved a few feet to their left, now standing in front of Father's statue. There was no wolf at his feet, but he bore the Hand of the King's pin on his breast. The plinth under his seat, commissioned by Robb by raven, read:

 

_EDDARD STARK_

_258 A.C. - 298 A.C._

_LORD OF WINTERFELL_

_WARDEN OF THE NORTH_

_HAND TO KING ROBERT I BARATHEON_

_EXECUTED BY JOFFREY, SON OF THE QUEEN_

 

 

Even cold in his grave, Eddard Stark would refuse to name Joffrey the rightful king of Westeros. Sansa felt no small amount of satisfaction about that, though it was such a small—and some would say silly—thing to think about. The statue of her father sat in his carved chair, as solemn in death as he'd been in life, though there were a few features that didn't quite match Sansa's memory.

 

“Doric asked if he could use me as a reference to touch up the face,” Jon told her apologetically, noticing her frown. “He hadn’t seen Father in some time.”

 

That made sense. The nose the mason had given Lord Eddard was wider and longer than Jon's, but not quite as severe as Father's and Uncle Benjen’s had been. The shape of the eyes was wrong too, more Jon than Father; though the long face, the trimmed beard, and the heavy brows were just as Sansa remembered.

 

“I saw him here,” Bran told them quietly. “When Father died, Rickon and I had the same dream; Father was down here in the crypts, and he was worried. It was something to do with Jon, but I didn't understand what it was at the time. The dream was so vivid that I asked Hodor to bring me here, and see if Father was truly in the crypts.”

 

“Well, he can rest easy now,” Jon said heavily, producing another sword. “The secret is out, his honor is restored, and no one tried to kill me—for my Targaryen blood, at least,” he amended, his face darkening at the thought of the mutiny.

 

He placed the sword on Father's lap, resting on the stone gloves, and stepped back with his head bowed. The sword didn’t look right; Ice had been Father’s sword, and any other looked oddly small in his hands, but this was the best they could do. Until Jon’s friend Sam found a way to reforge dragonsteel, Ice would remain in two pieces, and Valyrian steel was too valuable and scarce to leave in the crypts.

 

“Sleep well, Father,” Sansa whispered, holding Bran's hand tightly in hers.

 

There was little else to do here. They lifted Bran into the same basket-and-pulley contraption the masons used to haul stones up and down, and Jon dragged his chair up the narrow stairs, meeting the greenseer outside. Once he was seated once more, Bran wheeled himself to the godswood, followed by four shadows in gray cloaks.

 

That evening, as Bran slept off his headache, Jon and Sansa sat in his solar as they usually did. Jon plucked absently at his father's harp, probably going over his duties for the next day. He was very meticulous about such things, and had been since his days in the Night's Watch. Sansa, however, was a bit more troubled.

 

“What is it?” Jon asked at last. “You look like something's been bothering you all day. I didn't want to push, but going by your face, it's serious.”

 

“I had a strange dream,” Sansa admitted, setting her mending aside. “It didn't feel like a dream at all, but I was in the kennels, and I was short. I could smell the kennelmaster like he hadn't bathed in a year.”

 

Jon's fingers stopped moving.

 

“You had a dog dream?” he asked, his lips moving into a smile.

 

Sansa frowned. “Is that what it was?”

 

The King in the North put down the harp. “Well, I'm a warg and Bran is a warg for sure; he says that Rickon was, too, and it's likely that Robb could warg into Grey Wind. I wouldn't be surprised if you're one too, Sansa, and you never found out because Lady died so soon. You _did_ say you dreamed of her, once or twice.”

 

“I did,” Sansa said, “but—how do you control it?”

 

“Practice,” Jon replied, shrugging. “At first, I could only see what Ghost was doing in my dreams. The day Littlefinger escaped was the first time I warged intentionally, while wide awake. It should be easier with dogs, because they're so used to doing what humans tell them to do. You should ask Bran, though; I'm sure our Three-eyed Raven knows more about it than I do.”

 

“Yes,” Sansa replied, “and it would give us a reason to talk about something relatively normal.”

 

Jon laughed suddenly, and the sound of it was oddly bitter. “Look at the state of us! Throwing our consciousness into the head of a dog is considered _normal_ in this castle!”

 

“It bothers you too,” Sansa sighed in guilty relief. “You've been so quiet that I wasn't sure. I thought it was just me.”

 

“Of course it bothers me,” Jon replied frankly. “All those years at the Wall, I imagined you all the same way you were when I left. You've all grown up, and I expected that, but I didn't expect that my little brother would turn into an all-knowing bloody greenseer who spends half of his days having visions! I barely recognize him,” he added quietly, defeated. “And if Arya comes back as changed as Bran, I'm afraid I won't recognize _her_!”

 

“Do _I_ bother you, then?” she asked her cousin, dreading his reply.

 

“No, Sansa,” he answered gently. “It bothers me that you suffered so much, but it's different with you. I barely remember you as a carefree child, running around and playing with me. You were always so proper, so eager to be a grown-up like your mother, that the changes aren't as visible in you.”

 

It hurt to hear it. There were many things about Jon—his habits, his facial expressions, his likes and dislikes at dinner—that she'd never known, and she didn't know if he'd always been this way, or if his death had changed him. If she'd spent more time with Jon as a child, perhaps he would have noticed the changes in _her_ as well as Bran. Though maybe, it was their initial distance that had allowed Jon and Sansa to grow so close _now_ , without their notions of what the other _should_ have been to ruin their happy reunion.

 

If that was the case, it was the single benefit of her very poor childhood decisions, Sansa thought ruefully.

 

“Come on,” Jon said, leaving his father's harp on the table and extending a hand to Sansa. “Let's go to bed. If you have another warg dream, just ride it out, and see if you can will the dog to do what you want. You can ask Bran about it in the morning.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Though it took some time, Sansa adjusted to the new normal, no matter how strange. She grew close to Kyra in particular, out of her late husband's bitches, and slowly learned to warg as Jon and Bran did. She didn't know if she'd ever need the skill, but the animal was a part of her now. It made Sansa feel fierce, bold as she'd only felt once before, on the day she'd sentenced her husband to death. Warging was unladylike. Warging was a savage northern talent, and her mother and septa would have been horrified.

 

Sansa loved it. There was nothing quite like running free in the body of another, especially one who didn’t need to be courteous and brave all the time.

 

She made sure Kyra received the best treats when she visited the kennels. Though she didn't believe herself capable, she hoped her influence could tame the savage beasts into proper hunting hounds. After all, if a pack of mistreated dogs, beaten and starved by their owner and trained to be man-killers, could reform, then there was hope for the _humans_ the bastard had touched.

 

Out of those humans, too many were familiar. While visiting the women who had refused to take up weapons, Sansa caught sight of a face she'd known once, now pinched with fear and pain.

 

“Beth!” she gasped in surprise.

 

Beth Cassel, her old playmate, dropped the shift she'd been mending and flinched, as though she expected a beating. Sansa's heart broke for her.

 

“Oh, Beth,” she said, quieter. “I am glad you're home,” she said, helping her old friend gather her dropped items. Her once lovely auburn hair, similar to Sansa's in color but curly, was now dull and cropped quite short. While Beth the girl had been plump and jolly, Beth the woman was painfully thin, and looked ten years older than she truly was. She was missing both of her pinkies, and her delicate nose had been broken at least once.

 

“Your g—grace,” Ser Rodrik's daughter stammered inaudibly, bobbing into a perfect curtsy and avoiding eye contact.

 

Sansa winced. She'd made Jon wear a crown around the castle to show the smallfolk that there was a King of Winter once more, that the North was united under the Starks, and their needs would be tended to. She had not realized how the crown would alienate them from the people of Winterfell, and her circlet of winter roses felt heavy as she watched her former friend sew like her life depended on it.

 

“Beth, I hope you will take tea with me one of these days,” Sansa offered, feeling helpless. “I was always a friend to you, I hope, and that will not change because Jon made me a princess.”

 

Beth had frozen like a hunted deer, and finally nodded. Sansa had fought the urge to flee, and gone about her business with a heavy heart.

 

She'd cried herself to sleep that night, mumbling an explanation to Jon that must have made little sense, and clinging to her cousin for comfort. Seeing Beth in that state had reminded her of Theon, and Ramsay, and of the dark, endless nights of her second marriage. That had brought on worse nightmares than usual, prompting Jon to reach for his harp. He had not learned to read music yet, but he had memorized a few simple tunes by now.

 

Jon, good man that he was, had not dropped the matter after that. Though his duties were endless, Sansa heard him ask the servants to prepare a room for Beth in the castle. When Sansa looked inside, she found that Jon had brought some old dolls, children's books, and games that she, Beth, and Jeyne had once played. Though the glass gardens were in too sorry a shape for winter roses to bloom, Jon had scrounged up colorful tapestries from other rooms, and turned Beth Cassel's room into a chamber fit for a princess.

 

“What are you doing, Jon?” Sansa asked, amazed.

 

He turned to look at her with his most solemn face, but his eyes were kind.

 

“I'm creating a room without any bad memories. Perhaps this is a bit childish,” he admitted, pointing to the dolls, “but Beth is Arya's age, and she had to grow up far too quickly. I suppose I'm practicing, in a way,” he said quietly.

 

The truth was awful out loud. He was afraid that Arya would be just as damaged, or worse, if she ever returned. Sansa feared it too, but she and Arya had never understood each other as well as Arya and Jon. If their fierce she-wolf of a sister returned afraid of her own shadow, it would shatter Jon's heart as nothing else could.

 

Sansa took one of his gloved hands and tried to smile at him. It didn't work as well as she would have liked. “It was a good idea, Jon, and you're the only king I know who would take the time to do it himself. I'll bring Beth here; she shouldn't have to stay in the Cassels' cottage alone.”

 

Integrating the new arrivals into Winterfell's day-to-day life was a slow, painful process. Like many of the other survivors, Beth Cassel spoke in monosyllables and shakes of the head, except for the occasional “your grace” and “thank you.” Sansa invited her to sew, or to take tea with her and her maids, but did not push, hoping Beth would appreciate her newfound freedom. She had employed several of the rescued women in the castle, and encouraged the lords and ladies of the North to follow her example.

 

The quiet sewing group had turned more lively with the arrival of the Manderly girls, the first of Jon's potential brides. Though Jon was a king, he had no holdfast of his own, making him very appealing to the few heiresses left in the North. Sansa knew Lord Manderly wanted Jon for his Wynafryd, and he was merely the first and the boldest; Had little Erena Glover been older than seven namedays, Lord Glover might have offered _her_ up instead.

 

So far, the King in the North had shown little interest in either lady. He was always polite, but not flirtatious, and so busy that Wyna and Wylla rarely saw him, except at mealtimes. Watching Jon's stilted conversations with the girls, Sansa wondered how his romance with Ygritte had ever come to be. She'd thought green-haired Wylla, with her fearless personality and passionate opinions, might have gotten at least a blush from her serious cousin, but she had not.

 

Perhaps it was an advantage. As long as Jon remained unmarried, bannermen and potential allies would continue to curry favor, hoping Jon would choose their girls. With Jon refusing to marry off his family for political advantage, it was inevitable that his own neck would go into the noose, sooner or later. Sansa thanked the gods that Cersei was not likely to propose a marriage, though she wondered what Jon's aunt Daenerys would make of him, if she ever arrived.

 

A fortnight after the arrival of Myriame Ryswell, granddaughter of Lord Rodrik Ryswell and another potential Queen in the North, Jon stormed into the solar with a groan of irritation. He slammed the door, leaving a puzzled Brienne and Soren to stand guard outside. Sansa put down her book.

 

“What is it?”

 

“These Ryswells!” he exploded, taking off his crown so he could rub at his temples. “Lord Roger has been following me around all day, extolling the virtues of his daughter—who is _eleven_ , by the way—and at the same time, his sister is sniping at me and refusing to allow our excavation.”

 

He sank into his chair with a grimace.

 

“Why is Lady Dustin sniping at you?” Sansa asked calmly, reserving judgment until she'd heard it all.

 

“She says it's my fault her husband died, and Father left his bones at the Tower of Joy,” Jon replied, indignant. “I didn't ask to be born! I didn't ask my parents to run off into the mountains of Dorne, and I most definitely didn't ask William Dustin to ride down with Father to rescue my mother, but it's _all my fault_ , so she won't let us dig for dragonglass in the old barrows. If the Night King comes down here, I'm sure she'll blame me for _that_ , too, after refusing us the weapons that could save thousands of lives!”

 

“Mayhaps the Brotherhood had the right of it,” Sansa thought aloud. “We should have gone in there without asking. She may be Lady of Barrow Hall, but you're King in the North, and the barrows don't belong to her. What can she do to stop you, truly?”

 

“If we did that, she might order her people to refuse to sell any goods to our diggers; they'll have only the food they take with them, and no shelter except what they bring.” He took an angry breath. “I don't understand people who let spite get in the way of the common good,” Jon sighed. “And I don't know what to do. Maybe it's a team effort, and she won't relent unless I marry her niece.”

 

“Well, we can't have that,” Sansa said, scooting her chair closer to Jon's. “It's bad enough to reward houses that would not stand with us against the Boltons. It's worse to reward houses that are holding the key to our salvation for ransom—a king's ransom, at that!”

 

“They just don't see why we need it,” Jon said helplessly. “I'd love to capture a wight and shove it in their faces, but when they see it, they'll all panic. Winter is bad enough without adding monsters to the mix. I'd gladly be taken for a madman or a liar, if the White Walkers never appeared in the North at all, but I don't think that's likely, considering Brienne's report of the Bolton wights.”

 

“Well, perhaps your friend Sam will find another solution at the Citadel,” Sansa offered. “What if Horn Hill were built on a secret mountain of dragonglass?”

 

Jon laughed. “I doubt it, but I appreciate your optimism, Sansa. Truly,” he added, facing her. “I could never do this without you.”

 

“I know,” Sansa japed. “Without me, you would have sailed off somewhere sunny, to brood in the warmth instead of the cold, and you would never have gained a crown you didn't really want, or learned the truth of your birth.”

 

Jon's crooked smile told her all she needed to know. Even now that he'd seen his mother and father, he would have gladly died as the son of Ned Stark.

 

“I had a strange dream this morning,” Sansa confessed. “I was a girl again, and the king was coming to Winterfell for a visit, but it wasn't King Robert; it was King Rhaegar. Mother and Father were afraid that the king would betroth one of their daughters to one of his sons.”

 

Jon winced. “Have I replaced Joffrey in your nightmares, then?”

 

Sansa laughed, then kissed his forehead like he usually did to her. “Of course not, silly. You're the younger brother, aren’t you? That makes you the Tommen; all you need are some kittens. And the Aegon in my dream was quite a bit nicer than Joffrey, though for some reason, he looked like Tormund, with Brienne's height.”

 

That startled a laugh out of her cousin. “And would you have liked to marry an Aegon Targaryen who looked like Tormund and Brienne's child?”

 

“I'm not sure,” Sansa replied. “Before we had the feast, a red direwolf appeared and we were all chasing it around the godswood. I told you it was a strange dream.”

 

Before Jon could ask anything else, there was a knock on the heavy solar door.

 

“Enter,” said Jon, and one of the new castle errand-boys rushed in, out of breath.

 

“Message, your grace,” the boy gasped, offering Jon a raven scroll. “Maester says it's urgent.”

 

Jon took the scroll, and his face turned grave at the sight of the black wax.

 

“Is it from Edd?” Sansa asked.

 

Jon opened it with trembling hands. The message was short, and written in a cramped hand Sansa could not read from her seat. When Jon's face paled, she held out her hand and her cousin passed her the scroll. She read:

 

 

_To Jon Snow, King in the North,_

 

_Four cracks discovered in Wall, 200-300 feet high each. Gaps wide enough for men to pass at the base. Rangers report four hosts of the Dead, each led by White Walkers. At least 10,000 marching on Wall. Expect arrival in a fortnight. Send help._

 

_Eddison Tollett, Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch_

 

 

Sansa's hands shook. The scroll fluttered down to the table, and she fought her rising panic.

 

 _You knew this was coming_ , she told herself. _Jon told you the Dead were coming!_

 

_I didn't think they'd come so soon! And now the same Wall that stood for thousands of years is cracking, and Jon will leave, and how can he win this fight?_

 

“Summon the council at once,” Jon told the errand-boy.

 

“They'll have gone to bed, your grace,” the poor boy answered, pale.

 

“Then wake them!” Jon ordered, his voice rising. He jumped out of his chair and began to pace in agitation. “We must ride to war, immediately. Get everyone in here. Wake Lord Davos and Prince Bran, wake all of them! Let my Wintersguard drag them out of bed by their nightrails, if that's what it takes!”

 

The boy vanished. Sansa ran to her cousin's side and wrapped her arms around his waist, shivering in sudden fear.

 

“The Wall has cracks that go halfway up,” Sansa said shakily. “How did this happen, Jon?”

 

“I don't know,” he answered, equally shaken. “I know the Free Folk were looking for a horn that could bring down the Wall, but they never found it. And it would be stupid of them to use it now, when they're hiding behind the Wall like we are.”

 

“But the White Walkers could have found it,” she realized, her heart sinking further.

 

“Aye,” Jon sighed into her hair. “It has to be magic. And if they tear it down entirely, we'll have no protection.”

 

“If Lady Dustin doesn't apologize for keeping the obsidian to herself, I'll have Kyra rip out her eyes,” Sansa decided, furious that a single woman could make life difficult for so many.

 

Jon leaned away from Sansa, staring down open-mouthed. “That's the most vicious thing I've ever heard you say. Are you sure you shouldn't try warging with a nicer dog?”

 

“I'm perfectly sure,” Sansa replied, stepping away from her cousin to retake her seat. She sat with her hands folded demurely on her lap, but inside she was seething. She would _not_ allow the likes of Barbrey Dustin to decide if Jon—and the rest of the North—lived or died!

 

Jon's council trickled in, puzzled. Some were still fully dressed, like Bronze Yohn Royce and the Wintersguards. Others, like Ser Davos and Lord Cerwyn, had come in their nightrails, boots, and cloaks. Lord Ryswell, the newest member, had brought along his daughter, Lady Dustin, who was not on the council. Sansa was glad to see her, for once.

 

“We've received an urgent raven from the Wall, my lords,” Jon told them without preamble. “Lord Davos, if you would?”

 

Jon passed the message to his Hand, who frowned down at the small letters. As he read, his voice grew more and more concerned. Sansa watched the council members carefully. At the mention of cracks in the Wall, a few had scoffed. The size of the cracks had left some wide-eyed. The hosts of the Dead had wiped every remaining smile off their faces.

 

“I sent twelve hundred men to the Wall with Harwyn Wull,” Jon spoke into the deathly silent room. “Between them and the Night's Watch, we've manned nine castles out of thirteen. The tenth has a few dozen Lannister men. But none of them are equipped for this. Fire can destroy wights, but not White Walkers. Only dragonglass or Valyrian steel can do that, and as far as I know, there is only _one_ Valyrian steel sword on the Wall.”

 

Sansa saw Brienne's hand reach for the hilt of her Oathkeeper.

 

“This,” Jon continued firmly, “is why I asked to excavate the barrows of the First Men. We know there is obsidian in some of the barrows, because the Brotherhood Without Banners found it on their journey north. Our men will be outnumbered at least five to one on the Wall, and they don't have the weapons to fight the true enemy.”

 

The king's voice had risen only slightly, but the tone was so cold that Barbrey Dustin flinched.

 

“I will ride to the Wall tomorrow morning, with a Valyrian steel blade,” Jon informed them all in his most royal tones. “Let any man who doubts come along, and see the wights and White Walkers for himself. And let any man who wishes to help ride north to aid the Night's Watch, as Winterfell has done for thousands of years. If the Watch falls, so do we all.”

 

He took a breath. “Should I fall in battle, Princess Sansa must succeed me as Queen in the North.”

 

Jon waited, as though expecting an argument, but no one said anything but Lord Ryswell.

 

“Your grace,” he said quietly, shamefully, “I will lead the search for dragonglass myself.”

 

His daughter did not object.

 

“It may be too late to help with this particular battle, Lord Rodrik,” Jon replied, too worried to be polite, “but if we survive to fight another, your search may save what is left of the North. Now,” he added, “some must stay here and govern the North, while the rest of us fight. Ser Davos, I hope you will serve as Sansa's Hand.”

 

“Of course, your grace,” Davos replied. Though Jon trusted him implicitly, both Jon and Sansa knew the old smuggler was not much of a fighter.

 

“I will ride with you, your grace,” Lord Royce said at once.

 

“As will I,” added Harrold Hardying. “I promised Lady Forlorn would aid the fight against White Walkers, and so it will be,” he said. “That brings our Valyrian steel blade count to three.”

 

“Your grace, let me fight at your side,” Brienne asked.

 

“You were Sansa's sworn shield before you were a Wintersguard, Lady Commander,” Jon told her. “I would feel better with you at my side, but only if Lady Sansa can spare you.”

 

Sansa fought the urge to laugh. “Of course I can! I'll be safe at home while you fight ice monsters, Jon! I would prefer it if Brienne brought you home safely, instead of taking tea in my solar.”

 

“Very well,” Jon agreed. “Remember, my lords, we destroy wights with fire. Even without Valyrian steel, you can kill _them_ , and leave the White Walkers to those with the proper weapons.”

 

A few others volunteered. The first was Lord Glover, who had once turned them away so angrily.

 

“I will stand beside you, Jon Snow, as I promised when we named you king,” he said. “I have only plain steel to offer, but I will do my part for the North.”

 

“As will I,” added a pale but determined Lord Norrey.

 

“And I,” said Lord Flint, his eyes clouded with worry. “I've seen the Wall many times, your grace. Anything that could damage it so is a danger to us all.”

 

“Then get some rest, all of you,” Jon ordered. “We ride out three bells before noon. Lady Brienne, I want half of the Wintersguard to remain here with Sansa and Bran. The rest may come with me. Ser Davos, I want ravens sent to every northern holdfast; order them to shelter as many smallfolk as will fit inside their walls.”

 

“Yes, your grace,” replied the Hand and the Lady Commander.  
  
Jon dismissed them all, leaving only Bran, Sansa, and Jon himself.

 

“Well, now the war truly begins,” Jon told them ruefully. “I don't know how we'll win this fight, Bran.”

 

Their brother had not said a word since Jon's summons. His blue eyes were bloodshot and haunted.

 

“What if this is my fault, Jon?” he said, almost whispering. He held out his arm with his sleeve rolled up, showing them the Night King's mark. “What if _this_ is what cracked the Wall?”

 

“You don't know that,” Jon said firmly. “Mayhaps there were spells the Night's Watch needed to repair the Wall, and we forgot them through the centuries. Maybe the Night King grew so strong that it can't hold him back anymore. Let's not borrow trouble, alright? As long as the Wall stands—even cracked—all hope is not lost.”

 

“You just said you don't know how you'll win!” Sansa cried.

 

“I don't. I'm not going to lie,” Jon replied, shrugging. “But I'll do my best anyway. It's all I can do. Bran, you must keep watch on the Wall; if we fail, tell Sansa, and the two of you get out. Go as far south as you can go. Take all who will listen.”

 

“You can't fail,” Sansa objected, fighting her panic. “You promised you'd come back. That means you must win the battle, because you'd never leave your men there to die while you ran away.”

 

Jon's small smile gave her a bit of hope. If he could smile, it meant he had not fully despaired yet, like the aimless, paranoid Jon she'd met at Castle Black. A Jon with a purpose would fight, and he would _live_.

 

He must.

 

“Edd didn't say how many White Walkers there are,” Jon said, looking down at his hands. “I may kill a few, and so could Brienne, Jaime Lannister, and the southron peacock Hardying,” he told them. “But what if there are hundreds, or thousands? We just don't know. I can't kill them all with only four swords.”

 

“I'm looking for a better solution, Jon,” Bran promised tearfully. “I swear it. I will find something, if there's anything to find. But I have to look through _thousands_ of years of information, and I don't always know right away if what I've heard is useful. That's why my head always hurts,” he explained.

 

Sansa took her brother's hand and squeezed it. “We don't blame you, Bran. We know you're doing your best.”

 

They hugged fiercely then, the last three Starks, clustered around Bran's chair. Sansa hoped it wouldn't be the last time.

 

Bran retired to his room, leaving Sansa and Jon to walk to the Lord's Chamber. None of them slept well, though Jon put on his best brave face when it was time to leave. For the first time he carried Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, while Lady Brienne bore his beloved Longclaw. Oathkeeper was now Bran's, though none of them knew what Bran meant to do with it yet. All he would say was that Ice was somehow important to the defense of Winterfell, from snippets of conversation he'd heard in his visions.

 

Sansa didn't realize she was weeping until Jon kissed her cheek, coming away with wet lips. The important things had all been said the night before; she knew what to do for the North, and Jon knew to come back alive. Still, as she watched her cousin ride out with Ghost and his valiant band of volunteers, Sansa wondered if any of them would return. She wished she still believed in the gods; northern or southern, old or new, she would have prayed to all of them to keep Jon safe.

 

A timid hand took her own. Startled, Sansa turned and found Beth Cassel, mute as always, offering her silent support. On her other side, Bran did the same, while a sympathetic Lady Meera offered her own wordless encouragement. Wyna and Wylla Manderly had not lost their grandfather, who was, frankly, too fat to ride a horse these days, but they sent her sympathetic smiles all the same.

 

The princess held on to her brother and her friend and took a deep breath. Then, when the last man had gone and the gates were closed, she returned to her duties.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I did turn Ned's statue into a last, defiant northern middle finger to Joffrey. Jon and Sansa can thank Robb and Maester Luwin for that, or they could have if they weren't dead. (sob)
> 
> Do you all remember back in Part 2, when Brienne and her rescue crew all ran into some Bolton wights? You might have thought "how did that even happen? The Dead can't pass through the Wall!" Well, here's your answer. The Wall is cracking, and the Night's Watch was so understaffed that they had not found the cracks--they only go halfway up the 700-foot Wall, and the crows only patrol the top--so now that Jon sent all this extra manpower, the secret is finally out. 
> 
> Alright folks, that's the end of Part 3, and the peaceful interlude is over. Stay tuned for Part 4, where Dany and Euron will clash on the Sunset Sea, and King Jon's army will finally see what the North is up against. We'll catch up with other characters we haven't seen in a while, too. Let me know what you think if you're so inclined, and I will see you next time! Part 4, for your bookmarking pleasure, will be called _Rise and Fall_.


End file.
